LIBRARY 

»«SITY  Of 
CALIFORNIA 
SANTA    CIHJZ 


< 

2 


SANTA     CRUZ 


Gift  ol 

Mrs.  E.  Forbes  Wilsoq 


H 

X 


SANTA     CRUZ 


The  Bell  in  the  Fog 

And  Other  Stories 


GERTRUDE    ATHERTON 


The 

Bell  in  the   Fog 

And  Other  Stories 


Gertrude   Atherton 

1 

Author  of 
"  Rulers  of  Kings  "  "  The  Conqueror  "  etc. 


New  York  and  London 
Harper  &  Brothers 
Publishers  ::  1905 


Copyright,  1905,  by  HARPER  &  BROTHERS. 

All  rights  reserved. 
Published  February,  1905. 


PS 


To 

The   Master 

Henry  James 


Contents 


PAGE 


I.  THE  BELL  IN  THE  FOG 3 

II.  THE  STRIDING  PLACE 47 

III.  THE  DEAD  AND  THE  COUNTESS  ....  61 

IV.  THE  GREATEST  GOOD  OF  THE  GREATEST 

NUMBER 87 

V.  A  MONARCH  OF  A  SMALL  SURVEY  .     .     .  107 

VI.  THE  TRAGEDY  OF  A  SNOB 155 

VII.  CROWNED  WITH  ONE  CREST 203 

VIII.  DEATH  AND  THE  WOMAN 223 

IX.  A  PROLOGUE  (TO  AN  UNWRITTEN  PLAY)  .  235 

X.  TALBOT  OF  URSULA 257 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 


l  HE  great  author  had  realized 
one  of  the  dreams  of  his  ambi- 
tious youth,  the  possession  of  an 
ancestral  hall  in  England.  It 
was  not  so  much  the  good 
American's  reverence  for  ances- 
tors that  inspired  the  longing  to  consort  with 
the  ghosts  of  an  ancient  line,  as  artistic  appre- 
ciation of  the  mellowness,  the  dignity,  the  aris- 
tocratic aloofness  of  walls  that  have  sheltered, 
and  furniture  that  has  embraced,  generations 
and  generations  of  the  dead.  To  mere  wealth, 
only  his  astute  and  incomparably  modern  brain 
yielded  respect;  his  ego  raised  its  goose-flesh  at 
the  sight  of  rooms  furnished  with  a  single 
check,  conciliatory  as  the  taste  might  be.  The 
dumping  of  the  old  interiors  of  Europe  into 
the  glistening  shells  of  the  United  States  not 
only  roused  him  almost  to  passionate  protest, 

3 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 

but  offended  his  patriotism — which  he  classified 
among  his  unworked  ideals.  The  average  Amer- 
ican was  not  an  artist,  therefore  he  had  no 
excuse  for  even  the  affectation  of  cosmopolitan- 
ism. Heaven  knew  he  was  national  enough  in 
everything  else,  from  his  accent  to  his  lack  of 
repose ;  let  his  surroundings  be  in  keeping. 

Orth  had  left  the  United  States  soon  after 
his  first  successes,  and,  his  art  being  too  great 
to  be  confounded  with  locality,  he  had  long 
since  ceased  to  be  spoken  of  as  an  American 
author.  All  civilized  Europe  furnished  stages 
for  his  puppets,  and,  if  never  picturesque  nor 
impassioned,  his  originality  was  as  overwhelm- 
ing as  his  style.  His  subtleties  might  not  al- 
ways be  understood — indeed,  as  a  rule,  they 
were  not — but  the  musical  mystery  of  his 
language  and  the  penetrating  charm  of  his  lofty 
and  cultivated  mind  induced  raptures  in  the 
initiated,  forever  denied  to  those  who  failed  to 
appreciate  him. 

His  following  was  not  a  large  one,  but  it  was 
very  distinguished.  The  aristocracies  of  the 
earth  gave  to  it;  and  not  to  understand  and 
admire  Ralph  Orth  was  deliberately  to  relegate 
one's  self  to  the  ranks.  But  the  elect  are  few, 
and  they  frequently  subscribe  to  the  circulating 
libraries ;  on  the  Continent,  they  buy  the  Tauch- 

4 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 

nitz  edition;  and  had  not  Mr.  Orth  inherited  a 
sufficiency  of  ancestral  dollars  to  enable  him  to 
keep  rooms  in  Jermyn  Street,  and  the  wardrobe 
of  an  Englishman  of  leisure,  he  might  have  been 
forced  to  consider  the  tastes  of  the  middle-class 
at  a  desk  in  Hampstead.  But,  as  it  mercifully 
was,  the  fashionable  and  exclusive  sets  of  London 
knew  and  sought  him.  He  was  too  wary  to  be- 
come a  fad,  and  too  sophisticated  to  grate  or  bore ; 
consequently,  his  popularity  continued  evenly 
from  year  to  year,  and  long  since  he  had  come  to 
be  regarded  as  one  of  them.  He  was  not  keenly 
addicted  to  sport,  but  he  could  handle  a  gun,  and 
all  men  respected  his  dignity  and  breeding.  They 
cared  less  for  his  books  than  women  did,  perhaps 
because  patience  is  not  a  characteristic  of  their 
sex.  I  am  alluding,  however,  in  this  instance, 
to  men-of -the- world.  A  group  of  young  literary 
men — and  one  or  two  women — put  him  on  a  ped- 
estal and  kissed  the  earth  before  it.  Naturally, 
they  imitated  him,  and  as  this  flattered  him,  and 
he  had  a  kindly  heart  deep  among  the  cere-cloths 
of  his  formalities,  he  sooner  or  later  wrote  "ap- 
preciations" of  them  all,  which  nobody  living 
could  understand,  but  which  owing  to  the  sub- 
title and  signature  answered  every  purpose. 

With  all  this,  however,  he  was  not  utterly  con- 
tent.    From  the  i2th  of  August  until  late  in  the 

5 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 

winter — when  he  did  not  go  to  Homburg  and  the 
Riviera — he  visited  the  best  houses  in  England, 
slept  in  state  chambers,  and  meditated  in  historic 
parks ;  but  the  country  was  his  one  passion,  and 
he  longed  for  his  own  acres. 

He  was  turning  fifty  when  his  great-aunt  died 
and  made  him  her  heir:  "  as  a  poor  reward  for  his 
immortal  services  to  literature,"  read  the  will  of 
this  phenomenally  appreciative  relative.  The 
estate  was  a  large  one.  There  was  a  rush  for  his 
books ;  new  editions  were  announced.  He  smiled 
with  cynicism,  not  unmixed  with  sadness ;  but  he 
was  very  grateful  for  the  money,  and  as  soon  as 
his  fastidious  taste  would  permit  he  bought  him 
a  country-seat. 

The  place  gratified  all  his  ideals  and  dreams — 
for  he  had  romanced  about  his  sometime  English 
possession  as  he  had  never  dreamed  of  woman. 
It  had  once  been  the  property  of  the  Church,  and 
the  ruin  of  cloister  and  chapel  above  the  ancient 
wood  was  sharp  against  the  low  pale  sky.  Even 
the  house  itself  was  Tudor,  but  wealth  from  gen- 
eration to  generation  had  kept  it  in  repair;  and 
the  lawns  were  as  velvety,  the  hedges  as  rigid,  the 
trees  as  aged  as  any  in  his  own  works.  It  was 
not  a  castle  nor  a  great  property,  but  it  was  quite 
perfect ;  and  for  a  long  while  he  felt  like  a  bride- 
groom on  a  succession  of  honeymoons.  He  often 

6 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 

laid  his  hand  against  the  rough  ivied  walls  in  a 
lingering  caress. 

After  a  time,  he  returned  the  hospitalities  of  his 
friends,  and  his  invitations,  given  with  the  ex- 
clusiveness  of  his  great  distinction,  were  never 
refused.  Americans  visiting  England  eagerly 
sought  for  letters  to  him ;  and  if  they  were  some- 
times benumbed  by  that  cold  and  formal  presence, 
and  awed  by  the  silences  of  Chillingsworth — the 
few  who  entered  there — they  thrilled  in  anticipa- 
tion of  verbal  triumphs,  and  forthwith  bought  an 
entire  set  of  his  books.  It  was  characteristic  that 
they  dared  not  ask  him  for  his  autograph. 

Although  women  invariably  described  him  as 
''brilliant,"  a  few  men  affirmed  that  he  was  gen- 
tle and  lovable,  and  any  one  of  them  was  well 
content  to  spend  weeks  at  Chillingsworth  with  no 
other  companion.  But,  on  the  whole,  he  was 
rather  a  lonely  man. 

It  occurred  to  him  how  lonely  he  was  one  gay 
June  morning  when  the  sunlight  was  streaming 
through  his  narrow  windows,  illuminating  tap- 
estries and  armor,  the  family  portraits  of  the 
young  profligate  from  whom  he  had  made  this 
splendid  purchase,  dusting  its  gold  on  the  black 
wood  of  wainscot  and  floor.  He  was  in  the  gal- 
lery at  the  moment,  studying  one  of  his  two  fa- 
vorite portraits,  a  gallant  little  lad  in  the  green 

7 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 

costume  of  Robin  Hood.  The  boy's  expression 
was  imperious  and  radiant,  and  he  had  that  per- 
fect beauty  which  in  any  disposition  appealed  so 
powerfully  to  the  author.  But  as  Orth  stared 
to-day  at  the  brilliant  youth,  of  whose  life  he 
knew  nothing,  he  suddenly  became  aware  of  a 
human  stirring  at  the  foundations  of  his  aesthetic 
pleasure. 

"I  wish  he  were  alive  and  here,"  he  thought, 
with  a  sigh.  "What  a  jolly  little  companion  he 
would  be!  And  this  fine  old  mansion  would 
make  a  far  more  complementary  setting  for  him 
than  for  me." 

He  turned  away  abruptly,  only  to  find  himself 
face  to  face  with  the  portrait  of  a  little  girl  who 
was  quite  unlike  the  boy,  yet  so  perfect  in  her 
own  way,  and  so  unmistakably  painted  by  the 
same  hand,  that  he  had  long  since  concluded  they 
had  been  brother  and  sister.  She  was  angelically 
fair,  and,  young  as  she  was — she  could  not  have 
been  more  than  six  years  old — her  dark-blue  eyes 
had  a  beauty  of  mind  which  must  have  been  re- 
markable twenty  years  later.  Her  pouting  mouth 
was  like  a  little  scarlet  serpent,  her  skin  almost 
transparent,  her  pale  hair  fell  waving — not  curled 
with  the  orthodoxy  of  childhood — about  her  ten- 
der bare  shoulders.  She  wore  a  long  white 
frock,  and  clasped  tightly  against  her  breast  a 

8 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 

doll  far  more  gorgeously  arrayed  than  herself. 
Behind  her  were  the  ruins  and  the  woods  of 
Chillingsworth. 

Orth  had  studied  this  portrait  many  times,  for 
the  sake  of  an  art  which  he  understood  almost  as 
well  as  his  own;  but  to-day  he  saw  only  the  lovely 
child.  He  forgot  even  the  boy  in  the  intensity  of 
this  new  and  personal  absorption. 

"Did  she  live  to  grow  up,  I  wonder?"  he 
thought.  "  She  should  have  made  a  remarkable, 
even  a  famous  woman,  with  those  eyes  and  that 
brow,  but — could  the  spirit  within  that  ethereal 
frame  stand  the  enlightenments  of  maturity? 
Would  not  that  mind — purged,  perhaps,  in  a 
long  probation  from  the  dross  of  other  existences 
—flee  in  disgust  from  the  commonplace  problems 
of  a  woman's  life  ?  Such  perfect  beings  should  die 
while  they  are  still  perfect.  Still,  it  is  possible 
that  this  little  girl,  whoever  she  was,  was  ideal- 
ized by  the  artist,  who  painted  into  her  his  own 
dream  of  exquisite  childhood." 

Again  he  turned  away  impatiently.  "  I  believe 
I  am  rather  fond  of  children,"  he  admitted.  "I 
catch  myself  watching  them  on  the  street  when 
they  are  pretty  enough.  Well,  who  does  not 
like  them?"  he  added,  with  some  defiance. 

He  went  back  to  his  work ;  he  was  chiselling  a 
story  which  was  to  be  the  foremost  excuse  of  a 

9 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 

magazine  as  yet  unborn.  At  the  end  of  half  an 
hour  he  threw  down  his  wondrous  instrument— 
which  looked  not  unlike  an  ordinary  pen — and 
making  no  attempt  to  disobey  the  desire  that 
possessed  him,  went  back  to  the  gallery.  The 
dark  splendid  boy,  the  angelic  little  girl  were  all 
he  saw — even  of  the  several  children  in  that  roll- 
call  of  the  past — and  they  seemed  to  look  straight 
down  his  eyes  into  depths  where  the  fragmentary 
ghosts  of  unrecorded  ancestors  gave  faint  musical 
response. 

"The  dead's  kindly  recognition  of  the  dead," 
he  thought.  "But  I  wish  these  children  were 
alive." 

For  a  week  he  haunted  the  gallery,  and  the 
children  haunted  him.  Then  he  became  impa- 
tient and  angry.  "I  am  mooning  like  a  barren 
woman,"  he  exclaimed.  "  I  must  take  the  brief- 
est way  of  getting  those  youngsters  off  my  mind." 

With  the  help  of  his  secretary,  he  ransacked 
the  library,  and  finally  brought  to  light  the  gal- 
lery catalogue  which  had  been  named  in  the  in- 
ventory. He  discovered  that  his  children  were 
the  Viscount  Tancred  and  the  Lady  Blanche 
Mortlake,  son  and  daughter  of  the  second  Earl  of 
Teignmouth.  Little  wiser  than  before,  he  sat 
down  at  once  and  wrote  to  the  present  earl,  ask- 
ing for  some  account  of  the  lives  of  the  children. 

10 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 

He  awaited  the  answer  with  more  restlessness 
than  he  usually  permitted  himself,  and  took  long 
walks,  ostentatiously  avoiding  the  gallery. 

"  I  believe  those  youngsters  have  obsessed  me," 
he  thought,  more  than  once.  "They  certainly 
are  beautiful  enough,  and  the  last  time  I  looked 
at  them  in  that  waning  light  they  were  fairly 
alive.  Would  that  they  were,  and  scampering 
about  this  park." 

Lord  Teignmouth,  who  was  intensely  grateful 
to  him,  answered  promptly. 

"I  am  afraid,"  he  wrote,  "that  I  don't  know 
much  about  my  ancestors — those  who  didn't  do 
something  or  other;  but  I  have  a  vague  remem- 
brance of  having  been  told  by  an  aunt  of  mine, 
who  lives  on  the  family  traditions — she  isn't  mar- 
ried— that  the  little  chap  was  drowned  in  the 
river,  and  that  the  little  girl  died  too — I  mean 
when  she  was  a  little  girl — wasted  away,  or  some- 
thing— I'm  such  a  beastly  idiot  about  expressing 
myself,  that  I  wouldn't  dare  to  write  to  you  at 
all  if  you  weren't  really  great.  That  is  actually 
all  I  can  tell  you,  and  I  am  afraid  the  painter 
was  their  only  biographer." 

The  author  was  gratified  that  the  girl  had 
died  young,  but  grieved  for  the  boy.  Although 
he  had  avoided  the  gallery  of  late,  his  practised 
imagination  had  evoked  from  the  throngs  of  his- 

ii 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 

tory  the  high-handed  and  brilliant,  surely  ad- 
venturous career  of  the  third  Earl  of  Teignmouth. 
He  had  pondered  upon  the  deep  delights  of  di- 
recting such  a  mind  and  character,  and  had 
caught  himself  envying  the  dust  that  was  older 
still.  When  he  read  of  the  lad's  early  death,  in 
spite  of  his  regret  that  such  promise  should  have 
come  to  naught,  he  admitted  to  a  secret  thrill  of 
satisfaction  that  the  boy  had  so  soon  ceased  to 
belong  to  any  one.  Then  he  smiled  with  both 
sadness  and  humor. 

"What  an  old  fool  I  am!"  he  admitted.  "I 
believe  I  not  only  wish  those  children  were  alive, 
but  that  they  were  my  own." 

The  frank  admission  proved  fatal.  He  made 
straight  for  the  gallery.  The  boy,  after  the  in- 
terval of  separation,  seemed  more  spiritedly  alive 
than  ever,  the  little  girl  to  suggest,  with  her  faint 
appealing  smile,  that  she  would  like  to  be  taken 
up  and  cuddled. 

"I  must  try  another  way,"  he  thought,  des- 
perately, after  that  long  communion.  "I  must 
write  them  out  of  me." 

He  went  back  to  the  library  and  locked  up  the 
tour  de  force  which  had  ceased  to  command  his 
classic  faculty.  At  once,  he  began  to  write  the 
story  of  the  brief  lives  of  the  children,  much  to 
the  amazement  of  that  faculty,  which  was  little 

12 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 

accustomed  to  the  simplicities.  Nevertheless, 
before  he  had  written  three  chapters,  he  knew 
that  he  was  at  work  upon  a  masterpiece — and 
more :  he  was  experiencing  a  pleasure  so  keen  that 
once  and  again  his  hand  trembled,  and  he  saw 
the  page  through  a  mist.  Although  his  char- 
acters had  always  been  objective  to  himself  and 
his  more  patient  readers,  none  knew  better  than 
he — a  man  of  no  delusions — that  they  were  so 
remote  and  exclusive  as  barely  to  escape  being 
mere  mentalities;  they  were  never  the  pulsing 
living  creations  of  the  more  full-blooded  genius. 
But  he  had  been  content  to  have  it  so.  His 
creations  might  find  and  leave  him  cold,  but  he 
had  known  his  highest  satisfaction  in  chiselling 
the  statuettes,  extracting  subtle  and  elevating 
harmonies,  while  combining  words  as  no  man  of 
his  tongue  had  combined  them  before. 

But  the  children  were  not  statuettes.  He  had 
loved  and  brooded  over  them  long  ere  he  had 
thought  to  tuck  them  into  his  pen,  and  on  its 
first  stroke  they  danced  out  alive.  The  old  man- 
sion echoed  with  their  laughter,  with  their  de- 
lightful and  original  pranks.  Mr.  Orth  knew 
nothing  of  children,  therefore  all  the  pranks  he 
invented  were  as  original  as  his  faculty.  The 
little  girl  clung  to  his  hand  or  knee  as  they  both 
followed  the  adventurous  course  of  their  com- 

13 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 

mon  idol,  the  boy.  When  Orth  realized  how 
alive  they  were,  he  opened  each  room  of  his  home 
to  them  in  turn,  that  evermore  he  might  have 
sacred  and  poignant  memories  with  all  parts  of 
the  stately  mansion  where  he  must  dwell  alone  to 
the  end.  He  selected  their  bedrooms,  and  hov- 
ered over  them — not  through  infantile  disorders, 
which  were  beyond  even  his  imagination,  —but 
through  those  painful  intervals  incident  upon 
the  enterprising  spirit  of  the  boy  and  the  de- 
voted obedience  of  the  girl  to  fraternal  command. 
He  ignored  the  second  Lord  Teignmouth ;  he  was 
himself  their  father,  and  he  admired  himself  ex- 
travagantly for  the  first  time ;  art  had  chastened 
him  long  since.  Oddly  enough,  the  children  had 
no  mother,  not  even  the  memory  of  one. 

He  wrote  the  book  more  slowly  than  was  his 
wont,  and  spent  delightful  hours  pondering  upon 
the  chapter  of  the  morrow.  He  looked  forward 
to  the  conclusion  with  a  sort  of  terror,  and  made 
up  his  mind  that  when  the  inevitable  last  word 
was  written  he  should  start  at  once  for  Homburg. 
Incalculable  times  a  day  he  went  to  the  gallery, 
for  he  no  longer  had  any  desire  to  write  the  chil- 
dren out  of  his  mind,  and  his  eyes  hungered  for 
them.  They  were  his  now.  It  was  with  an  ef- 
fort that  he  sometimes  humorously  reminded 
himself  that  another  man  had  fathered  them,  and 
.  14 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 

that  their  little  skeletons  were  under  the  choir  of 
the  chapel.  Not  even  for  peace  of  mind  would 
he  have  descended  into  the  vaults  of  the  lords  of 
Chillingsworth  and  looked  upon  the  marble  ef- 
figies of  his  children.  Nevertheless,  when  in  a 
superhumorous  mood,  he  dwelt  upon  his  high 
satisfaction  in  having  been  enabled  by  his 
great-aunt  to  purchase  all  that  was  left  of 
them. 

For  two  months  he  lived  in  his  fool's  paradise, 
and  then  he  knew  that  the  book  must  end.  He 
nerved  himself  to  nurse  the  little  girl  through  her 
wasting  illness,  and  when  he  clasped  her  hands, 
his  own  shook,  his  knees  trembled.  Desolation 
settled  upon  the  house,  and  he  wished  he  had  left 
one  corner  of  it  to  which  he  could  retreat  un- 
haunted  by  the  child's  presence.  He  took  long 
tramps,  avoiding  the  river  with  a  sensation  next 
to  panic.  It  was  two  days  before  he  got  back  to 
his  table,  and  then  he  had  made  up  his  mind  to 
let  the  boy  live.  To  kill  him  off,  too,  was  more 
than  his  augmented  stock  of  human  nature  could 
endure.  After  all,  the  lad's  death  had  been  pure- 
ly accidental,  wanton.  It  was  just  that  he 
should  live — with  one  of  the  author's  inimitable 
suggestions  of  future  greatness;  but,  at  the  end, 
the  parting  was  almost  as  bitter  as  the  other. 
Orth  knew  then  how  men  feel  when  their  sons  go 

15 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 

forth  to  encounter  the  world  and  ask  no  more  of 
the  old  companionship. 

The  author's  boxes  were  packed.  He  sent  the 
manuscript  to  his  publisher  an  hour  after  it  was 
finished — he  could  not  have  given  it  a  final  read- 
ing to  have  saved  it  from  failure — directed  his 
secretary  to  examine  the  proof  under  a  micro- 
scope, and  left  the  next  morning  for  Homburg. 
There,  in  inmost  circles,  he  forgot  his  children. 
He  visited  in  several  of  the  great  houses  of  the 
Continent  until  November;  then  returned  to 
London  to  find  his  book  the  literary  topic  of  the 
day.  His  secretary  handed  him  the  reviews ;  and 
for  once  in  a  way  he  read  the  finalities  of  the 
nameless.  He  found  himself  hailed  as  a  genius, 
and  compared  in  astonished  phrases  to  the  pro- 
digiously clever  talent  which  the  world  for  twenty 
years  had  isolated  under  the  name  of  Ralph  Orth. 
This  pleased  him,  for  every  writer  is  human 
enough  to  wish  to.  be  hailed  as  a  genius,  and  im- 
mediately. Many  are,  and  many  wait;  it  de- 
pends upon  the  fashion  of  the  moment,  and  the 
needs  and  bias  of  those  who  write  of  writers. 
Orth  had  waited  twenty  years ;  but  his  past  was 
bedecked  with  the  headstones  of  geniuses  long 
since  forgotten.  He  was  gratified  to  come  thus 
publicly  into  his  estate,  but  soon  reminded  him- 
self that  all  the  adulation  of  which  a  belated 

16 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 

world  was  capable  could  not  give  him  one  thrill 
of  the  pleasure  which  the  companionship  of  that 
book  had  given  him,  while  creating.  It  was  the 
keenest  pleasure  in  his  memory,  and  when  a  man 
is  fifty  and  has  written  many  books,  that  is  say- 
ing a  great  deal. 

He  allowed  what  society  was  in  town  to  lavish 
honors  upon  him  for  something  over  a  month, 
then  cancelled  all  his  engagements  and  went  down 
to  Chillingsworth. 

His  estate  was  in  Hertfordshire,  that  county 
of  gentle  hills  and  tangled  lanes,  of  ancient  oaks 
and  wide  wild  heaths,  of  historic  houses,  and  dark 
woods,  and  green  fields  innumerable  —  a  Words- 
worthian  shire,  steeped  in  the  deepest  peace  of 
England.  As  Orth  drove  towards  his  own  gates 
he  had  the  typical  English  sunset  to  gaze  upon, 
a  red  streak  with  a  church  spire  against  it.  His 
woods  were  silent.  In  the  fields,  the  cows  stood 
as  if  conscious  of  their  part.  The  ivy  on  his  old 
gray  towers  had  been  young  with  his  children. 

He  spent  a  haunted  night,  but  the  next  day 
stranger  happenings  began. 


II 

He  rose  early,  and  went  for  one  of  his  long 
walks.     England  seems  to  cry  out  to  be  walked 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 

upon,  and  Orth,  like  others  of  the  transplanted, 
experienced  to  the  full  the  country's  gift  of  foot- 
restlessness  and  mental  calm.  Calm  flees,  how- 
ever, when  the  ego  is  rampant,  and  to-day,  as 
upon  others  too  recent,  Orth's  soul  was  as  rest- 
less as  his  feet.  He  had  walked  for  two  hours 
when  he  entered  the  wood  of  his  neighbor's  estate, 
a  domain  seldom  honored  by  him,  as  it,  too,  had 
been  bought  by  an  American — a  flighty  hunting 
widow,  who  displeased  the  fastidious  taste  of  the 
author.  He  heard  children's  voices,  and  turned 
with  the  quick  prompting  of  retreat. 

As  he  did  so,  he  came  face  to  face,  on  the  narrow 
path,  with  a  little  girl.  For  the  moment  he  was 
possessed  by  the  most  hideous  sensation  which 
can  visit  a  man's  being — abject  terror.  He  be- 
lieved that  body  and  soul  were  disintegrating. 
The  child  before  him  was  his  child,  the  original  of 
a  portrait  in  wljieh  the  artist,  dead  two  centuries 
ago,  had  missed  exact  fidelity,  after  all.  The 
difference,  even  his  rolling  vision  took  note,  lay  in 
the  warm  pure  living  whiteness  and  the  deeper 
spiritual  suggestion  of  the  child  in  his  path.  Fort- 
unately for  his  self-respect,  the  surrender  lasted 
but  a  moment.  The  little  girl  spoke. 

"  You  look  real  sick,"  she  said.  "  Shall  I  lead 
you  home?" 

The  voice  was  soft  and  sweet,  but  the  intona- 
18 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 

tion,  the  vernacular,  were  American,  and  not  of 
the  highest  class.  The  shock  was,  if  possible, 
more  agonizing  than  the  other,  but  this  time 
Orth  rose  to  the  occasion. 

"Who  are  you?"  he  demanded,  with  asperity. 
"What  is  your  name?  Where  do  you  live?" 

The  child  smiled,  an  angelic  smile,  although  she 
was  evidently  amused.  "  I  never  had  so  many 
questions  asked  me  all  at  once,"  she  said.  "  But 
I  don't  mind,  and  I'm  glad  you're  not  sick.  I'm 
Mrs.  Jennie  Root's  little  girl — my  father's  dead. 
My  name  is  Blanche — -you  are  sick!  No? — and 
I  live  in  Rome,  New  York  State.  We've  come 
over  here  to  visit  pa's  relations." 

Orth  took  the  child's  hand  in  his.  It  was  very 
warm  and  soft. 

"Take  me  to  your  mother,"  he  said,  firmly; 
"now,  at  once.  You  can  return  and  play  after- 
wards. And  as  I  wouldn't  h&^e  you  disap- 
pointed for  the  world,  I'll  send  to  town  to-day 
for  a  beautiful  doll." 

The  little  girl,  whose  face  had  fallen,  flashed 
her  delight,  but  walked  with  great  dignity  beside 
him.  He  groaned  in  his  depths  as  he  saw  they 
were  pointing  for  the  widow's  house,  but  made 
up  his  mind  that  he  would  know  the  history  of 
the  child  and  of  all  her  ancestors,  if  he  had  to  sit 
down  at  table  with  his  obnoxious  neighbor.  To 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 

his  surprise,  however,  the  child  did  not  lead  him 
into  the  park,  but  towards  one  of  the  old  stone 
houses  of  the  tenantry. 

"  Pa's  great  -  great  -  great  -  grandfather  lived 
there,"  she  remarked,  with  all  the  American's 
pride  of  ancestry.  Orth  did  not  smile,  however. 
Only  the  warm  clasp  of  the  hand  in  his,  the  soft 
thrilling  voice  of  his  still  mysterious  companion, 
prevented  him  from  feeling  as  if  moving  through 
the  mazes  of  one  of  his  own  famous  ghost 
stories. 

The  child  ushered  him  into  the  dining-room, 
where  an  old  man  was  seated  at  the  table  reading 
his  Bible.  The  room  was  at  least  eight  hundred 
years  old.  The  ceiling  was  supported  by  the 
trunk  of  a  tree,  black,  and  probably  petrified. 
The  windows  had  still  their  diamond  panes,  sep- 
arated, no  doubt,  by  the  original  lead.  Beyond 
was  a  large  kitchen  in  which  were  several  women. 
The  old  man,  who  looked  patriarchal  enough  to 
have  laid  the  foundations  of  his  dwelling,  glanced 
up  and  regarded  the  visitor  without  hospitality. 
His  expression  softened  as  his  eyes  moved  to  the 
child. 

"Who  'ave  ye  brought?"  he  asked.  He  re- 
moved his  spectacles.  "Ah!"  He  rose,  and  of- 
fered the  author  a  chair.  At  the  same  moment, 
the  women  entered  the  room. 

20 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 

"Of  course  you've  fallen  in  love  with  Blanche, 
sir,"  said  one  of  them.  "Everybody  does." 

"Yes,  that  is  it.  Quite  so."  Confusion  still 
prevailing  among  his  faculties,  he  clung  to  the 
naked  truth.  "This  little  girl  has  interested  and 
startled  me  because  she  bears  a  precise  resem- 
blance to  one  of  the  portraits  in  Chillingsworth — 
painted  about  two  hundred  years  ago.  Such 
extraordinary  likenesses  do  not  occur  without 
reason,  as  a  rule,  and,  as  I  admired  my  portrait 
so  deeply  that  I  have  written  a  story  about  it, 
you  will  not  think  it  unnatural  if  I  am  more  than 
curious  to  discover  the  reason  for  this  resem- 
blance. The  little  girl  tells  me  that  her  ances- 
tors lived  in  this  very  house,  and  as  my  little  girl 
lived  next  door,  so  to  speak,  there  undoubtedly 
is  a  natural  reason  for  the  resemblance." 

His  host  closed  the  Bible,  put  his  spectacles  in 
his  pocket,  and  hobbled  out  of  the  house. 

"He'll  never  talk  of  family  secrets,"  said  an 
elderly  woman,  who  introduced  herself  as  the  old 
man's  daughter,  and  had  placed  bread  and  milk 
before  the  guest.  "There  are  secrets  in  every 
family,  and  we  have  ours,  but  he'll  never  tell 
those  old  tales.  All  I  can  tell  you  is  that  an  an- 
cestor of  little  Blanche  went  to  wreck  and  ruin 
because  of  some  fine  lady's  doings,  and  killed 
himself.  The  story  is  that  his  boys  turned  out 

3  21 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 

bad.  One  of  them  saw  his  crime,  and  never  got 
over  the  shock;  he  was  foolish  like,  after.  The 
mother  was  a  poor  scared  sort  of  creature,  and 
hadn't  much  influence  over  the  other  boy.  There 
seemed  to  be  a  blight  on  all  the  man's  descendants, 
until  one  of  them  went  to  America.  Since  then, 
they  haven't  prospered,  exactly,  but  they've  done 
better,  and  they  don't  drink  so  heavy." 

"They  haven't  done  so  well,"  remarked  a  worn 
patient-looking  woman.  Orth  typed  her  as  be- 
longing to  the  small  middle-class  of  an  interior 
town  of  the  eastern  United  States. 

"You  are  not  the  child's  mother?" 

"  Yes,  sir.  Everybody  is  surprised ;  you  needn't 
apologize.  She  doesn't  look  like  any  of  us,  al- 
though her  brothers  and  sisters  are  good  enough 
for  anybody  to  be  proud  of.  But  we  all  think 
she  strayed  in  by  mistake,  for  she  looks  like  any 
lady's  child,  and,  of  course,  we're  only  middle- 
class." 

Orth  gasped.  It  was  the  first  time  he  had  ever 
heard  a  native  American  use  the  term  middle- 
class  with  a  personal  application.  For  the  mo- 
ment, he  forgot  the  child.  His  analytical  mind 
raked  in  the  new  specimen.  He  questioned,  and 
learned  that  the  woman's  husband  had  kept  a 
hat  store  in  Rome,  New  York ;  that  her  boys  were 
clerks,  her  girls  in  stores,  or  type-writing.  They 

22 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 

kept  her  and  little  Blanche — who  had  come  after 
her  other  children  were  well  grown — in  comfort ; 
and  they  were  all  very  happy  together.  The  boys 
broke  out,  occasionally;  but,  on  the  whole,  were 
the  best  in  the  world,  and  her  girls  were  worthy 
of  far  better  than  they  had.  All  were  robust, 
except  Blanche.  "She  coming  so  late,  when  I 
was  no  longer  young,  makes  her  delicate,"  she 
remarked,  with  a  slight  blush,  the  signal  of  her 
chaste  Americanism;  "  but  I  guess  she'll  get  along 
all  right.  She  couldn't  have  better  care  if  she 
was  a  queen's  child." 

Orth,  who  had  gratefully  consumed  the  bread 
and  milk,  rose.  "  Is  that  really  all  you  can  tell 
me?"  he  asked. 

"That's  all,"  replied  the  daughter  of  the  house. 
"And  you  couldn't  pry  open  father's  mouth." 

Orth  shook  hands  cordially  with  all  of  them, 
for  he  could  be  charming  when  he  chose.  He 
offered  to  escort  the  little  girl  back  to  her  play- 
mates in  the  wood,  and  she  took  prompt  posses- 
sion of  his  hand.  As  he  was  leaving,  he  turned 
suddenly  to  Mrs.  Root.  "Why  did  you  call  her 
Blanche?"  he  asked. 

"  She  was  so  white  and  dainty,  she  just  looked 
it." 

Orth  took  the  next  train  for  London,  and  from 
Lord  Teignmouth  obtained  the  address  of  the 

23 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 

aunt  who  lived  on  the  family  traditions,  and  a 
cordial  note  of  introduction  to  her.  He  then 
spent  an  hour  anticipating,  in  a  toy  shop,  the 
whims  and  pleasures  of  a  child — an  incident  of 
paternity  which  his  book-children  had  not  in- 
spired. He  bought  the  finest  doll,  piano,  French 
dishes,  cooking  apparatus,  and  playhouse  in  the 
shop,  and  signed  a  check  for  thirty  pounds  with  a 
sensation  of  positive  rapture.  Then  he  took  the 
train  for  Lancashire,  where  the  Lady  Mildred 
Mortlake  lived  in  another  ancestral  home. 

Possibly  there  are  few  imaginative  writers  who 
have  not  a  leaning,  secret  or  avowed,  to  the  oc- 
cult. The  creative  gift  is  in  very  close  relation- 
ship with  the  Great  Force  behind  the  universe; 
for  aught  we  know,  may  be  an  atom  thereof.  It 
is  not  strange,  therefore,  that  the  lesser  and  closer 
of  the  unseen  forces  should  send  their  vibrations 
to  it  occasionally ;  or,  at  all  events,  that  the  imag- 
ination should  incline  its  ear  to  the  most  mys- 
terious and  picturesque  of  all  beliefs.  Orth 
frankly  dallied  with  the  old  dogma.  He  formu- 
lated no  personal  faith  of  any  sort,  but  his  crea- 
tive faculty,  that  ego  within  an  ego,  had  made 
more  than  one  excursion  into  the  invisible  and 
brought  back  literary  treasure. 

The  Lady  Mildred  received  with  sweetness  and 
warmth  the  generous  contributor  to  the  family 

24 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 

sieve,  and  listened  with  fluttering  interest  to  all 
he  had  not  told  the  world — she  had  read  the  book 
— and  to  the  strange,  Americanized  sequel. 

"I  am  all  at  sea,"  concluded  Orth.  "What 
had  my  little  girl  to  do  with  the  tragedy  ?  What 
relation  was  she  to  the  lady  who  drove  the  young 
man  to  destruction — ?" 

"The  closest,"  interrupted  Lady  Mildred. 
"She  was  herself!" 

Orth  stared  at  her.  Again  he  had  a  confused 
sense  of  disintegration.  Lady  Mildred,  gratified 
by  the  success  of  her  bolt,  proceeded  less  dra- 
matically: 

"  Wally  was  up  here  just  after  I  read  your  book, 
and  I  discovered  he  had  given  you  the  wrong 
history  of  the  picture.  Not  that  he  knew  it.  It 
is  a  story  we  have  left  untold  as  often  as  possible, 
and  I  tell  it  to  you  only  because  you  would  prob- 
ably become  a  monomaniac  if  I  didn't.  Blanche 
Mortlake — that  Blanche — there  had  been  several 
of  her  name,  but  there  has  not  been  one  since — 
did  not  die  in  childhood,  but  lived  to  be  twenty- 
four.  She  was  an  angelic  child,  but  little  angels 
sometimes  grow  up  into  very  naughty  girls.  I 
believe  she  was  delicate  as  a  child,  which  prob- 
ably gave  her  that  spiritual  look.  Perhaps  she 
was  spoiled  and  flattered,  until  her  poor  little  soul 
was  stifled,  which  is  likely.  At  all  events,  she 

25 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 

was  the  coquette  of  her  day — she  seemed  to  care 
for  nothing  but  breaking  hearts ;  and  she  did  not 
stop  when  she  married,  either.  She  hated  her 
husband,  and  became  reckless.  She  had  no  chil- 
dren. So  far,  the  tale  is  not  an  uncommon  one; 
but  the  worst,  and  what  makes  the  ugliest  stain 
in  our  annals,  is  to  come. 

"She  was  alone  one  summer  at  Chillingsworth 
• — where  she  had  taken  temporary  refuge  from 
her  husband — and  she  amused  herself — some  say, 
fell  in  love — with  a  young  man  of  the  yeomanry, 
a  tenant  of  the  next  estate.  His  name  was  Root. 
He,  so  it  comes  down  to  us,  was  a  magnificent 
specimen  of  his  kind,  and  in  those  days  the  yeo- 
manry gave  us  our  great  soldiers.  His  beauty  of 
face  was  quite  as  remarkable  as  his  physique ;  he 
led  all  the  rural  youth  in  sport,  and  was  a  bit 
above  his  class  in  every  way.  He  had  a  wife  in 
no  way  remarkable,  and  two  little  boys,  but  was 
always  more  with  his  friends  than  his  family. 
Where  he  and  Blanche  Mortlake  met  I  don't 
know — in  the  woods,  probably,  although  it  has 
been  said  that  he  had  the  run  of  the  house.  But, 
at  all  events,  he  was  wild  about  her,  and  she  pre- 
tended to  be  about  him.  Perhaps  she  was,  for 
women  have  stooped  before  and  since.  Some 
women  can  be  stormed  by  a  fine  man  in  any  cir- 
cumstances ;  but,  although  I  am  a  woman  of  the 

26 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 

world,  and  not  easy  to  shock,  there  are  some 
things  I  tolerate  so  hardly  that  it  is  all  I  can  do  to 
bring  myself  to  believe  in  them;  and  stooping  is 
one.  Well,  they  were  the  scandal  of  the  county 
for  months,  and  then,  either  because  she  had 
tired  of  her  new  toy,  or  his  grammar  grated  after 
the  first  glamour,  or  because  she  feared  her  hus- 
band, who  was  returning  from  the  Continent,  she 
broke  off  with  him  and  returned  to  town.  He 
followed  her,  and  forced  his  way  into  her  house. 
It  is  said  she  melted,  but  made  him  swear  never 
to  attempt  to  see  her  again.  He  returned  to  his 
home,  and  killed  himself.  A  few  months  later 
she  took  her  own  life.  That  is  all  I  know." 

"  It  is  quite  enough  for  me,"  said  Orth. 

The  next  night,  as  his  train  travelled  over  the 
great  wastes  of  Lancashire,  a  thousand  chimneys 
were  spouting  forth  columns  of  fire.  Where  the 
sky  was  not  red  it  was  black.  The  place  looked 
like  hell.  Another  time  Orth's  imagination  would 
have  gathered  immediate  inspiration  from  this 
wildest  region  of  England.  The  fair  and  peaceful 
counties  of  the  south  had  nothing  to  compare  in 
infernal  grandeur  with  these  acres  of  flaming 
columns.  The  chimneys  were  invisible  in  the 
lower  darkness  of  the  night ;  the  fires  might  have 
leaped  straight  from  the  angry  caldron  of  the 
earth. 

27 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 

But  Orth  was  in  a  subjective  world,  searching 
for  all  he  had  ever  heard  of  occultism.  He  recalled 
that  the  sinful  dead  are  doomed,  according  to 
this  belief,  to  linger  for  vast  reaches  of  time  in 
that  borderland  which  is  close  to  earth,  eventually 
sent  back  to  work  out  their  final  salvation ;  that 
they  work  it  out  among  the  descendants  of  the 
people  they  have  wronged ;  that  suicide  is  held  by 
the  devotees  of  occultism  to  be  a  cardinal  sin, 
abhorred  and  execrated. 

Authors  are  far  closer  to  the  truths  enfolded  in 
mystery  than  ordinary  people,  because  of  that 
very  audacity  of  imagination  which  irritates  their 
plodding  critics.  As  only  those  who  dare  to 
make  mistakes  succeed  greatly,  only  those  who 
shake  free  the  wings  of  their  imagination  brush, 
once  in  a  way,  the  secrets  of  the  great  pale  world. 
If  such  writers  go  wrong,  it  is  not  for  the  mere 
brains  to  tell  them  so. 

Upon  Orth's  return  to  Chillingsworth,  he  called 
at  once  upon  the  child,  and  found  her  happy 
among  his  gifts.  She  put  her  arms  about  his 
neck,  and  covered  his  serene  unlined  face  with 
soft  kisses.  This  completed  the  conquest.  Orth 
from  that  moment  adored  her  as  a  child,  irre- 
spective of  the  psychological  problem. 

Gradually  he  managed  to  monopolize  her. 
From  long  walks  it  was  but  a  step  to  take  her 

28 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 

home  for  luncheon.  The  hours  of  her  visits 
lengthened.  He  had  a  room  fitted  up  as  a 
nursery  and  filled  with  the  wonders  of  toyland. 
He  took  her  to  London  to  see  the  pantomimes; 
two  days  before  Christmas,  to  buy  presents  for 
her  relatives ;  and  together  they  strung  them  upon 
the  most  wonderful  Christmas-tree  that  the  old 
hall  of  Chillingsworth  had  ever  embraced.  She 
had  a  donkey-cart,  and  a  trained  nurse,  disguised 
as  a  maid,  to  wait  upon  her.  Before  a  month 
had  passed  she  was  living  in  state  at  Chillings- 
worth and  paying  daily  visits  to  her  mother. 
Mrs.  Root  was  deeply  flattered,  and  apparently 
well  content.  Orth  told  her  plainly  that  he 
should  make  the  child  independent,  and  educate 
her,  meanwhile.  Mrs.  Root  intended  to  spend 
six  months  in  England,  and  Orth  was  in  no  hurry 
to  alarm  her  by  broaching  his  ultimate  design. 

He  reformed  Blanche's  accent  and  vocabulary, 
and  read  to  her  out  of  books  which  would  have 
addled  the  brains  of  most  little  maids  of  six ;  but 
she  seemed  to  enjoy  them,  although  she  seldom 
made  a  comment.  He  was  always  ready  to  play 
games  with  her,  but  she  was  a  gentle  little  thing, 
and,  moreover,  tired  easily.  She  preferred  to 
sit  in  the  depths  of  a  big  chair,  toasting  her  bare 
toes  at  the  log-fire  in  the  hall,  while  her  friend 
read  or  talked  to  her.  Although  she  was  thought- 

29 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 

ful,  and,  when  left  to  herself,  given  to  dreaming, 
his  patient  observation  could  detect  nothing  un- 
canny about  her.  Moreover,  she  had  a  quick 
sense  of  humor,  she  was  easily  amused,  and  could 
laugh  as  merrily  as  any  child  in  the  world.  He 
was  resigning  all  hope  of  further  development  on 
the  shadowy  side  when  one  day  he  took  her  to  the 
picture-gallery. 

It  was  the  first  warm  day  of  summer.  The 
gallery  was  not  heated,  and  he  had  not  dared  to 
take  his  frail  visitor  into  its  chilly  spaces  during 
the  winter  and  spring.  Although  he  had  wished 
to  see  the  effect  of  the  picture  on  the  child,  he 
had  shrunk  from  the  bare  possibility  of  the  very 
developments  the  mental  part  of  him  craved; 
the  other  was  warmed  and  satisfied  for  the  first 
time,  and  held  itself  aloof  from  disturbance. 
But  one  day  the  sun  streamed  through  the  old 
windows,  and,  obeying  a  sudden  impulse,  he  led 
Blanche  to  the  gallery. 

It  was  some  time  before  he  approached  the 
child  of  his  earlier  love.  Again  he  hesitated. 
He  pointed  out  many  other  fine  pictures,  and 
Blanche  smiled  appreciatively  at  his  remarks, 
that  were  wise  in  criticism  and  interesting  in 
matter.  He  never  knew  just  how  much  she  un- 
derstood, but  the  very  fact  that  there  were  depths 
in  the  child  beyond  his  probing  riveted  his  chains. 

•3° 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 

Suddenly  he  wheeled  about  and  waved  his 
hand  to  her  prototype.  "What  do  you  think 
of  that  ?"  he  asked.  "  You  remember,  I  told  you 
of  the  likeness  the  day  I  met  you." 

She  looked  indifferently  at  the  picture,  but  he 
noticed  that  her  color  changed  oddly;  its  pure 
white  tone  gave  place  to  an  equally  delicate 
gray. 

"  I  have  seen  it  before,"  she  said.  "  I  came  in 
here  one  day  to  look  at  it.  And  I  have  been  quite 
often  since.  You  never  forbade  me,"  she  added, 
looking  at  him  appealingly,  but  dropping  her 
eyes  quickly.  "  And  I  like  the  little  girl — and  the 
boy — very  much." 

"Do  you?    Why?" 

"I  don't  know" — a  formula  in  which  she  had 
taken  refuge  before.  Still  her  candid  eyes  were 
lowered ;  but  she  was  quite  calm.  Orth,  instead 
of  questioning,  merely  fixed  his  eyes  upon  her, 
and  waited.  In  a  moment  she  stirred  uneasily, 
but  she  did  not  laugh  nervously,  as  another  child 
would  have  done.  He  had  never  seen  her  self- 
possession  ruffled,  and  he  had  begun  to  doubt  he 
ever  should.  She  was  full  of  human  warmth  and 
affection.  She  seemed  made  for  love,  and  every 
creature  who  came  within  her  ken  adored  her, 
from  the  author  himself  down  to  the  litter  of  pup- 
pies presented  to  her  by  the  stable-boy  a  few 

31 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 

weeks  since;  but  her  serenity  would  hardly  be 
enhanced  by  death. 

She  raised  her  eyes  finally,  but  not  to  his.  She 
looked  at  the  portrait. 

"Did  you  know  that  there  was  another  pict- 
ure behind?"  she  asked. 

"No,"  replied  Orth,  turning  cold.  "How  did 
you  know  it?" 

"  One  day  I  touched  a  spring  in  the  frame,  and 
this  picture  came  forward.  Shall  I  show  you?" 

"Yes!"  And  crossing  curiosity  and  the  in- 
voluntary shrinking  from  impending  phenomena 
was  a  sensation  of  aesthetic  disgust  that  he  should 
be  treated  to  a  secret  spring. 

The  little  girl  touched  hers,  and  that  other 
Blanche  sprang  aside  so  quickly  that  she  might 
have  been  impelled  by  a  sharp  blow  from  behind. 
Orth  narrowed  his  eyes  and  stared  at  what  she 
revealed.  He  felt  that  his  own  Blanche  was 
watching  him,  and  set  his  features,  although  his 
breath  was  short. 

There  was  the  Lady  Blanche  Mortlake  in  the 
splendor  of  her  young  womanhood,  beyond  a 
doubt.  Gone  were  all  traces  of  her  spiritual 
childhood,  except,  perhaps,  in  the  shadows  of  the 
mouth ;  but  more  than  fulfilled  were  the  promises 
of  her  mind.  Assuredly,  the  woman  had  been  as 
brilliant  and  gifted  as  she  had  been  restless  and 

32 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 

passionate.  She  wore  her  very  pearls  with  arro- 
gance, her  very  hands  were  tense  with  eager  life, 
her  whole  being  breathed  mutiny. 

Orth  turned  abruptly  to  Blanche,  who  had 
transferred  her  attention  to  the  picture. 

"What  a  tragedy  is  there!"  he  exclaimed,  with 
a  fierce  attempt  at  lightness.  "  Think  of  a  woman 
having  all  that  pent  up  within  her  two  centuries 
ago!  And  at  the  mercy  of  a  stupid  family,  no 
doubt,  and  a  still  stupider  husband.  No  won- 
der—  To-day,  a  woman  like  that  might  not  be  a 
model  for  all  the  virtues,  but  she  certainly  would 
use  her  gifts  and  become  famous,  the  while  living 
her  life  too  fully  to  have  any  place  in  it  for  yeo- 
men and  such,  or  even  for  the  trivial  business  of 
breaking  hearts."  He  put  his  finger  under 
Blanche's  chin,  and  raised  her  face,  but  he  could 
not  compel  her  gaze.  "  You  are  the  exact  image 
of  that  little  girl,"  he  said,  "except  that  you  are 
even  purer  and  finer.  She  had  no  chance,  none 
whatever.  You  live  in  the  woman's  age.  Your 
opportunities  will  be  infinite.  I  shall  see  to  it 
that  they  are.  What  you  wish  to  be  you  shall  be. 
There  will  be  no  pent-up  energies  here  to  burst 
out  into  disaster  for  yourself  and  others.  You 
shall  be  trained  to  self-control — that  is,  if  you 
ever  develop  self-will,  dear  child — every  faculty 
shall  be  educated,  every  school  of  life  you  desire 

33 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 

knowledge  through  shall  be  opened  to  you.  You 
shall  become  that  finest  flower  of  civilization,  a 
woman  who  knows  how  to  use  her  indepen- 
dence." 

She  raised  her  eyes  slowly,  and  gave  him  a  look 
which  stirred  the  roots  of  sensation — a  long  look 
of  unspeakable  melancholy.  Her  chest  rose  once; 
then  she  set  her  lips  tightly,  and  dropped  her 
eyes. 

''What  do  you  mean?"  he  cried,  roughly,  for 
his  soul  was  chattering.  "Is — it — do  you — ?" 
He  dared  not  go  too  far,  and  concluded  lamely, 
"You  mean  you  fear  that  your  mother  will  not 
give  you  to  me  when  she  goes — you  have  divined 
that  I  wish  to  adopt  you  ?  Answer  me,  will  you  ?" 

But  she  only  lowered  her  head  and  turned 
away,  and  he,  fearing  to  frighten  or  repel  her, 
apologized  for  his  abruptness,  restored  the  outer 
picture  to  its  place,  and  led  her  from  the  gallery. 

He  sent  her  at  once  to  the  nursery,  and  when 
she  came  down  to  luncheon  and  took  her  place  at 
his  right  hand,  she  was  as  natural  and  childlike 
as  ever.  For  some  days  he  restrained  his  curi- 
osity, but  one  evening,  as  they  were  sitting  before 
the  fire  in  the  hall  listening  to  the  storm,  and  just 
after  he  had  told  her  the  story  of  the  erl-king,  he 
took  her  on  his  knee  and  asked  her  gently  if  she 
would  not  tell  him  what  had  been  in  her  thoughts 

34 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 

when  he  had  drawn  her  brilliant  future.  Again 
her  face  turned  gray,  and  she  dropped  her 
eyes. 

"I  cannot,"  she  said.  "I — perhaps — I  don't 
know." 

"Was  it  what  I  suggested?" 

She  shook  her  head,  then  looked  at  him  with  a 
shrinking  appeal  which  forced  him  to  drop  the 
subject. 

He  went  the  next  day  alone  to  the  gallery,  and 
looked  long  at  the  portrait  of  the  woman.  She 
stirred  no  response  in  him.  Nor  could  he  feel 
that  the  woman  of  Blanche's  future  would  stir 
the  man  in  him.  The  paternal  was  all  he  had  to 
give,  but  that  was  hers  forever. 

He  went  out  into  the  park  and  found  Blanche 
digging  in  her  garden,  very  dirty  and  absorbed. 
The  next  afternoon,  however,  entering  the  hall 
noiselessly,  he  saw  her  sitting  in  her  big  chair, 
gazing  out  into  nothing  visible,  her  whole  face 
settled  in  melancholy.  He  asked  her  if  she  were 
ill,  and  she  recalled  herself  at  once,  but  confessed 
to  feeling  tired.  Soon  after  this  he  noticed  that 
she  lingered  longer  in  the  comfortable  depths  of 
her  chair,  and  seldom  went  out,  except  with  him- 
self. She  insisted  that  she  was  quite  well,  but 
after  he  had  surprised  her  again  looking  as  sad  as 
if  she  had  renounced  every  joy  of  childhood,  he 

35 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 

summoned  from  London  a  doctor  renowned  for 
his  success  with  children. 

The  scientist  questioned  and  examined  her. 
When  she  had  left  the  room  he  shrugged  his 
shoulders. 

"She  might  have  been  born  with  ten  years  of 
life  in  her,  or  she  might  grow  up  into  a  buxom 
woman,"  he  said.  "  I  confess  I  cannot  tell.  She 
appears  to  be  sound  enough,  but  I  have  no  X-rays 
in  my  eyes,  and  for  all  I  know  she  may  be  on  the 
verge  of  decay.  She  certainly  has  the  look  of 
those  who  die  young.  I  have  never  seen  so  spir- 
itual a  child.  But  I  can  put  my  finger  on  nothing. 
Keep  her  out-of-doors,  don't  give  her  sweets,  and 
don't  let  her  catch  anything  if  you  can  help 
it." 

Orth  and  the  child  spent  the  long  warm  days 
of  summer  tinder  the  trees  of  the  park,  or  driving 
in  the  quiet  lanes.  Guests  were  unbidden,  and 
his  pen  was  idle.  All  that  was  human  in  him 
had  gone  out  to  Blanche.  He  loved  her,  and  she 
was  a  perpetual  delight  to  him.  The  rest  of  the 
world  received  the  large  measure  of  his  indiffer- 
ence. There  was  no  further  change  in  her,  and 
apprehension  slept  and  let  him  sleep.  He  had 
persuaded  Mrs.  Root  to  remain  in  England  for  a 
year.  He  sent  her  theatre  tickets  every  week, 
and  placed  a  horse  and  phaeton  at  her  disposal. 

36 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 

She  was  enjoying  herself  and  seeing  less  and  less 
of  Blanche.  He  took  the  child  to  Bournemouth 
for  a  fortnight,  and  again  to  Scotland,  both  of 
which  outings  benefited  as  much  as  they  pleased 
her.  She  had  begun  to  tyrannize  over  him  ami- 
ably, and  she  carried  herself  quite  royally.  But 
she  was  always  sweet  and  truthful,  and  these 
qualities,  combined  with  that  something  in  the 
depths  of  her  mind  which  defied  his  explorations, 
held  him  captive.  She  was  devoted  to  him,  and 
cared  for  no  other  companion,  although  she 
was  demonstrative  to  her  mother  when  they 
met. 

It  was  in  the  tenth  month  of  this  idyl  of  the 
lonely  man  and  the  lonely  child  that  Mrs.  Root 
flurriedly  entered  the  library  of  Chillingsworth, 
where  Orth  happened  to  be  alone. 

"Oh,  sir,"  she  exclaimed,  "I  must  go  home. 
My  daughter  Grace  writes  me — she  should  have 
done  it  before — that  the  boys  are  not  behaving 
as  well  as  they  should — she  didn't  tell  me,  as  I 
was  having  such  a  good  time  she  just  hated  to 
worry  me — Heaven  knows  I've  had  enough 
worry — but  now  I  must  go — I  just  couldn't  stay 
—boys  are  an  awful  responsibility — girls  ain't  a 
circumstance  to  them,  although  mine  are  a  hand- 
ful sometimes." 

Orth  had  written  about  too  many  women  to 
4  37 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 

interrupt  the  flow.  He  let  her  talk  until  she 
paused  to  recuperate  her  forces.  Then  he  said 
quietly : 

"I  am  sorry  this  has  come  so  suddenly,  for  it 
forces  me  to  broach  a  subject  at  once  which  I 
would  rather  have  postponed  until  the  idea  had 
taken  possession  of  you  by  degrees — 

"I  know  what  it  is  you  want  to  say,  sir,"  she 
broke  in,  "and  I've  reproached  myself  that  I 
haven't  warned  you  before,  but  I  didn't  like 
to  be  the  one  to  speak  first.  You  want 
Blanche  —  of  course,  I  couldn't  help  seeing 
that;  but  I  can't  let  her  go,  sir,  indeed,  I 
can't." 

"Yes,"  he  said,  firmly,  "I  want  to  adopt 
Blanche,  and  I  hardly  think  you  can  refuse,  for 
you  must  know  how  greatly  it  will  be  to  her  ad- 
vantage. She  is  a  wonderful  child;  you  have 
never  been  blind  to  that ;  she  should  have  every 
opportunity,  not  only  of  money,  but  of  associa- 
tion. If  I  adopt  her  legally,  I  shall,  of  course, 
make  her  my  heir,  and — there  is  no  reason  why 
she  should  not  grow  up  as  great  a  lady  as  any  in 
England." 

The  poor  woman  turned  white,  and  burst  into 
tears.  "I've  sat  up  nights  and  nights,  strug- 
gling," she  said,  when  she  could  speak.  "That, 
and  missing  her.  I  couldn't  stand  in  her  light, 

38 


The    Bell    in    the   Fog 

and  I  let  her  stay.  I  know  I  oughtn't  to,  now — 
I  mean,  stand  in  her  light — but,  sir,  she  is  dearer 
than  all  the  others  put  together." 

( 'Then  live  here  in  England — at  least,  for  some 
years  longer.  I  will  gladly  relieve  your  children 
of  your  support,  and  you  can  see  Blanche  as  often 
as  you  choose." 

"  I  can't  do  that,  sir.  After  all,  she  is  only  one, 
and  there  are  six  others.  I  can't  desert  them. 
They  all  need  me,  if  only  to  keep  them  together- 
three  girls  unmarried  and  out  in  the  world,  and 
three  boys  just  a  little  inclined  to  be  wild.  There 
is  another  point,  sir — I  don't  exactly  know  how 
to  say  it." 

"Well?"  asked  Orth,  kindly.  This  American 
woman  thought  him  the  ideal  gentleman,  al- 
though the  mistress  of  the  estate  on  which  she 
visited  called  him  a  boor  and  a  snob. 

"  It  is — well — you  must  know — you  can  imag- 
ine— that  her  brothers  and  sisters  just  worship 
Blanche.  They  save  their  dimes  to  buy  her 
everything  she  wants — or  used  to  want.  Heaven 
knows  what  will  satisfy  her  now,  although  I  can't 
see  that  she's  one  bit  spoiled.  But  she's  just  like 
a  religion  to  them;  they're  not  much  on  church. 
I'll  tell  you,  sir,  what  I  couldn't  say  to  any  one 
else,  not  even  to  these  relations  who've  been  so 
kind  to  me — but  there's  wildness,  just  a  streak, 

39 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 

in  all  my  children,  and  I  believe,  I  know,  it's 
Blanche  that  keeps  them  straight.  My  girls  get 
bitter,  sometimes;  work  all  the  week  and  little 
fun,  not  caring  for  common  men  and  no  chance 
to  marry  gentlemen;  and  sometimes  they  break 
out  and  talk  dreadful;  then,  when  they're  over  it, 
they  say  they'll  live  for  Blanche — they've  said  it 
over  and  over,  and  they  mean  it.  Every  sacri- 
fice they've  made  for  her — and  they've  made 
many — has  done  them  good.  It  isn't  that 
Blanche  ever  says  a  word  of  the  preachy  sort,  or 
has  anything  of  the  Sunday-school  child  about 
her,  or  even  tries  to  smooth  them  down  when 
they're  excited.  It's  just  herself.  The  only 
thing  she  ever  does  is  sometimes  to  draw  herself 
up  and  look  scornful,  and  that  nearly  kills  them. 
Little  as  she  is,  they're  crazy  about  having  her 
respect.  I've  grown  superstitious  about  her. 
Until  she  came  I  used  to  get  frightened,  terribly, 
sometimes,  and  I  believe  she  came  for  that.  So 
—you  see !  I  know  Blanche  is  too  fine  for  us  and 
ought  to  have  the  best ;  but,  then,  they  are  to  be 
considered,  too.  They  have  their  rights,  and 
they've  got  much  more  good  than  bad  in  them. 
I  don't  know!  I  don't  know!  It's  kept  me 
awake  many  nights." 

Orth  rose  abruptly.     "Perhaps  you  will  take 
some  further  time  to  think  it  over,"  he  said. 

40 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 

"You  can  stay  a  few  weeks  longer — the  matter 
cannot  be  so  pressing  as  that." 

The  woman  rose.  "I've  thought  this,"  she 
said;  "let  Blanche  decide.  I  believe  she  knows 
more  than  any  of  us.  I  believe  that  whichever 
way  she  decided  would  be  right.  I  won't  say 
anything  to  her,  so  you  won't  think  I'm  working 
on  her  feelings ;  and  I  can  trust  you.  But  she'll 
know." 

"  Why  do  you  think  that  ?"  asked  Orth,  sharply. 
"  There  is  nothing  uncanny  about  the  child.  She 
is  not  yet  seven  years  old.  Why  should  you  place 
such  a  responsibility  upon  her?" 

" Do  you  think  she's  like  other  children?" 

"I  know  nothing  of  other  children." 

"I  do,  sir.  I've  raised  six.  And  I've  seen 
hundreds  of  others.  I  never  was  one  to  be  a  fool 
about  my  own,  but  Blanche  isn't  like  any  other 
child  living — I'm  certain  of  it." 

"What  do  you  think?" 

And  the  woman  answered,  according  to  her 
lights:  "I  think  she's  an  angel,  and  came  to  us 
because  we  needed  her." 

"And  I  think  she  is  Blanche  Mortlake  working 
out  the  last  of  her  salvation,"  thought  the  author; 
but  he  made  no  reply,  and  was  alone  in  a  mo- 
ment. 

It  was  several  days  before  he  spoke  to  Blanche, 
41 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 

and  then,  one  morning,  when  she  was  sitting  on 
her  mat  on  the  lawn  with  the  light  full  upon  her, 
he  told  her  abruptly  that  her  mother  must  return 
home. 

To  his  surprise,  but  unutterable  delight,  she 
burst  into  tears  and  flung  herself  into  his  arms. 

"You  need  not  leave  me,"  he  said,  when  he 
could  find  his  own  voice.  "You  can  stay  here 
always  and  be  my  little  girl.  It  all  rests  with 
you." 

"I  can't  stay,"  she  sobbed.     "I  can't!" 

"And  that  is  what  made  you  so  sad  once  or 
twice?"  he  asked,  with  a  double  eagerness. 

She  made  no  reply. 

"Oh!"  he  said,  passionately,  "give  me  your 
confidence,  Blanche.  You  are  the  only  breath- 
ing thing  that  I  love." 

"  If  I  could  I  would,"  she  said.  "  But  I  don't 
know — not  quite." 

"How  much  do  you  know?" 

But  she  sobbed  again  and  would  not  answer. 
He  dared  not  risk  too  much.  After  all,  the 
physical  barrier  between  the  past  and  the  present 
was  very  young. 

"Well,  well,  then,  we  will  talk  about  the  other 
matter.  I  will  not  pretend  to  disguise  the  fact 
that  your  mother  is  distressed  at  the  idea  of  part- 
ing from  you,  and  thinks  it  would  be  as  sad  for 

42 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 

your  brothers  and  sisters,  whom  she  says  you  in- 
fluence for  their  good.  Do  you  think  that  you 
do?" 

"Yes." 

"How  do  you  know  this?" 

"Do  you  know  why  you  know  everything?" 

"No,  my  dear,  and  I  have  great  respect  for 
your  instincts.  But  your  sisters  and  brothers 
are  now  old  enough  to  take  care  of  themselves. 
They  must  be  of  poor  stuff  if  they  cannot  live 
properly  without  the  aid  of  a  child.  Moreover, 
they  will  be  marrying  soon.  That  will  also  mean 
that  your  mother  will  have  many  little  grand- 
children to  console  her  for  your  loss.  I  will  be 
the  one  bereft,  if  you  leave  me.  I  am  the  only 
one  who  really  needs  you.  I  don't  say  I  will  go 
to  the  bad,  as  you  may  have  very  foolishly  per- 
suaded yourself  your  family  will  do  without  you, 
but  I  trust  to  your  instincts  to  make  you  realize 
how  unhappy,  how  inconsolable  I  shall  be.  I 
shall  be  the  loneliest  man  on  earth!" 

She  rubbed  her  face  deeper  into  his  flannels, 
and  tightened  her  embrace.  "Can't  you  come, 
too?"  she  asked. 

"No;  you  must  live  with  me  wholly  or  not  at 
all.  Your  people  are  not  my  people,  their  ways 
are  not  my  ways.  We  should  not  get  along. 
And  if  you  lived  with  me  over  there  you  might  as 

43 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 

well  stay  here,  for  your  influence  over  them  would 
be  quite  as  removed.  Moreover,  if  they  are  of  the 
right  stuff,  the  memory  of  you  will  be  quite  as 
potent  for  good  as  your  actual  presence." 

"Not  unless  I  died." 

Again  something  within  him  trembled.  "Do 
you  believe  you  are  going  to  die  young?"  he 
blurted  out. 

But  she  would  not  answer. 

He  entered  the  nursery  abruptly  the  next  day 
and  found  her  packing  her  dolls.  When  she  saw 
him,  she  sat  down  and  began  to  weep  hopelessly. 
He  knew  then  that  his  fate  was  sealed.  And 
when,  a  year  later,  he  received  her  last  little 
scrawl,  he  was  almost  glad  that  she  went  when 
she  did. 


II 
The    Striding    Place 


The    Striding    Place 


[EIGALL,  continental  and  de- 
tached, tired  early  of  grouse- 
shooting.  To  stand  propped 
against  a  sod  fence  while  his 
host's  workmen  routed  up  the 
birds  with  long  poles  and  drove 
them  towards  the  waiting  guns,  made  him  feel 
himself  a  parody  on  the  ancestors  who  had  roam- 
ed the  moors  and  forests  of  this  West  Riding  of 
Yorkshire  in  hot  pursuit  of  game  worth  the  killing. 
But  when  in  England  in  August  he  always  ac- 
cepted whatever  proffered  for  the  season,  and  in- 
vited his  host  to  shoot  pheasants  on  his  estates  in 
the  South.  The  amusements  of  life,  he  argued, 
should  be  accepted  with  the  same  philosophy  as 
its  ills. 

It  had  been  a  bad  day.  A  heavy  rain  had  made 
the  moor  so  spongy  that  it  fairly  sprang  beneath 
the  feet.  Whether  or  not  the  grouse  had  haunts 
of  their  own,  wherein  they  were  immune  from 

47 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 

rheumatism,  the  bag  had  been  small.  The 
women,  too,  were  an  unusually  dull  lot,  with  the 
exception  of  a  new-minded  debutante  who  both- 
ered Weigall  at  dinner  by  demanding  the  verbal 
restoration  of  the  vague  paintings  on  the  vaulted 
roof  above  them. 

But  it  was  no  one  of  these  things  that  sat  on 
Weigall's  mind  as,  when  the  other  men  went  up 
to  bed,  he  let  himself  out  of  the  castle  and  saun- 
tered down  to  the  river.  His  intimate  friend,  the 
companion  of  his  boyhood,  the  chum  of  his  college 
days,  his  fellow-traveller  in  many  lands,  the  man 
for  whom  he  possessed  stronger  affection  than  for 
all  men,  had  mysteriously  disappeared  two  days 
ago,  and  his  track  might  have  sprung  to  the 
upper  air  for  all  trace  he  had  left  behind  him.  He 
had  been  a  guest  on  the  adjoining  estate  during 
the  past  week,  shooting  with  the  fervor  of  the 
true  sportsman,  making  love  in  the  intervals  to 
Adeline  Cavan,  and  apparently  in  the  best  of 
spirits.  As  far  as  was  known  there  was  nothing 
to  lower  his  mental  mercury,  for  his  rent-roll  was 
a  large  one,  Miss  Cavan  blushed  whenever  he 
looked  at  her,  and,  being  one  of  the  best  shots  in 
England,  he  was  never  happier  than  in  August. 
The  suicide  theory  was  preposterous,  all  agreed, 
and  there  was  as  little  reason  to  believe  him  mur- 
dered. Nevertheless,  he  had  walked  out  of 

48 


The    Striding    Place 

March  Abbey  two  nights  ago  without  hat  or  over- 
coat, and  had  not  been  seen  since. 

The  country  was  being  patrolled  night  and  day. 
A  hundred  keepers  and  workmen  were  beating  the 
woods  and  poking  the  bogs  on  the  moors,  but  as 
yet  not  so  much  as  a  handkerchief  had  been  found. 

Weigall  did  not  believe  for  a  moment  that 
Wyatt  Gifford  was  dead,  and  although  it  was  im- 
possible not  to  be  affected  by  the  general  uneasi- 
ness, he  was  disposed  to  be  more  angry  than 
frightened.  At  Cambridge  Gifford  had  been  an 
incorrigible  practical  joker,  and  by  no  means  had 
outgrown  the  habit;  it  would  be  like  him  to  cut 
across  the  country  in  his  evening  clothes,  board  a 
cattle-train,  and  amuse  himself  touching  up  the 
picture  of  the  sensation  in  West  Riding. 

However,  Weigall's  affection  for  his  friend  was 
too  deep  to  companion  with  tranquillity  in  the 
present  state  of  doubt,  and,  instead  of  going  to 
bed  early  with  the  other  men,  he  determined  to 
walk  until  ready  for  sleep.  He  went  down  to  the 
river  and  followed  the  path  through  the  woods. 
There  was  no  moon,  but  the  stars  sprinkled  their 
cold  light  upon  the  pretty  belt  of  water  flowing 
placidly  past  wood  and  ruin,  between  green 
masses  of  overhanging  rocks  or  sloping  banks 
tangled  with  tree  and  shrub,  leaping  occasionally 
over  stones  with  the  harsh  notes  of  an  angry  scold, 

49 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 

to  recover  its  equanimity  the  moment  the  way 
was  clear  again. 

It  was  very  dark  in  the  depths  where  Weigall 
trod.  He  smiled  as  he  recalled  a  remark  of  Gif- 
ford's:  "An  English  wood  is  like  a  good  many 
other  things  in  life — very  promising  at  a  distance, 
but  a  hollow  mockery  when  you  get  within.  You 
see  daylight  on  both  sides,  and  the  sun  freckles 
the  very  bracken.  Our  woods  need  the  night  to 
make  them  seem  what  they  ought  to  be — what 
they  once  were,  before  our  ancestors'  descendants 
demanded  so  much  more  money,  in  these  so  much 
more  various  days." 

Weigall  strolled  along,  smoking,  and  thinking 
of  his  friend,  his  pranks— many  of  which  had 
done  more  credit  to  his  imagination  than  this — 
and  recalling  conversations  that  had  lasted  the 
night  through.  Just  before  the  end  of  the  Lon- 
don season  they  had  walked  the  streets  one  hot 
night  after  a  party,  discussing  the  various  theo- 
ries of  the  soul's  destiny.  That  afternoon  they 
had  met  at  the  coffin  of  a  college  friend  whose 
mind  had  been  a  blank  for  the  past  three  years. 
Some  months  previously  they  had  called  at  the 
asylum  to  see  him.  His  expression  had  been 
senile,  his  face  imprinted  with  the  record  of  de- 
bauchery. In  death  the  face  was  placid,  intelli- 
gent, without  ignoble  lineation — the  face  of  the 

5° 


The    Striding    Place 

man  they  had  known  at  college.  Weigall  and 
Gifford  had  had  no  time  to  comment  there,  and 
the  afternoon  and  evening  were  full;  but,  com- 
ing forth  from  the  house  of  festivity  togeth- 
er, they  had  reverted  almost  at  once  to  the 
topic. 

" I  cherish  the  theory,"  Gifford  had  said,  "that 
the  soul  sometimes  lingers  in  the  body  after  death. 
During  madness,  of  course,  it  is  an  impotent 
prisoner,  albeit  a  conscious  one.  Fancy  its  agony, 
and  its  horror!  What  more  natural  than  that, 
when  the  life-spark  goes  out,  the  tortured  soul 
should  take  possession  of  the  vacant  skull  and 
triumph  once  more  for  a  few  hours  while  old 
friends  look  their  last?  It  has  had  time  to  re- 
pent while  compelled  to  crouch  and  behold  the 
result  of  its  work,  and  it  has  shrived  itself  into  a 
state  of  comparative  purity.  If  I  had  my  way,  I 
should  stay  inside  my  bones  until  the  coffin  had 
gone  into  its  niche,  that  I  might  obviate  for  my 
poor  old  comrade  the  tragic  impersonality  of 
death.  And  I  should  like  to  see  justice  done  to 
it,  as  it  were — to  see  it  lowered  among  its  ances- 
tors with  the  ceremony  and  solemnity  that  are  its 
due.  I  am  afraid  that  if  I  dissevered  myself  too 
quickly,  I  should  yield  to  curiosity  and  hasten  to 
investigate  the  mysteries  of  space." 

"  You  believe  in  the  soul  as  an  independent  en- 
51 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 

tity,  then — that  it  and  the  vital  principle  are  not 
one  and  the  same?" 

"Absolutely.  The  body  and  soul  are  twins, 
life  comrades — sometimes  friends,  sometimes  ene- 
mies, but  always  loyal  in  the  last  instance.  Some 
day,  when  I  am  tired  of  the  world,  I  shall  go  to 
India  and  become  a  mahatma,  solely  for  the 
pleasure  of  receiving  proof  during  life  of  this  in- 
dependent relationship." 

"  Suppose  you  were  not  sealed  up  properly,  and 
returned  after  one  of  your  astral  flights  to  find 
your  earthly  part  unfit  for  habitation  ?  It  is  an 
experiment  I  don't  think  I  should  care  to  try, 
unless  even  juggling  with  soul  and  flesh  had 
palled." 

"That  would  not  be  an  uninteresting  predica- 
ment. I  should  rather  enjoy  experimenting  with 
broken  machinery." 

The  high  wild  roar  of  water  smote  suddenly 
upon  Weigall's  ear  and  checked  his  memories. 
He  left  the  wood  and  walked  out  on  the  huge 
slippery  stones  which  nearly  close  the  River 
Wharfe  at  this  point,  and  watched  the  waters 
boil  down  into  the  narrow  pass  with  their  furious 
untiring  energy.  The  black  quiet  of  the  woods 
rose  high  on  either  side.  The  stars  seemed  colder 
and  whiter  just  above.  On  either  hand  the  per- 
spective of  the  river  might  have  run  into  a  rayless 

52 


The    Striding    Place 

cavern.  There  was  no  lonelier  spot  in  England, 
nor  one  which  had  the  right  to  claim  so  many 
ghosts,  if  ghosts  there  were. 

Weigall  was  not  a  coward,  but  he  recalled  un- 
comfortably the  tales  of  those  that  had  been  done 
to  death  in  the  Strid.1  Wordsworth's  Boy  of 
Egremond  had  been  disposed  of  by  the  practical 
Whitaker;  but  countless  others,  more  venture- 
some than  wise,  had  gone  down  into  that  nar- 
row boiling  course,  never  to  appear  in  the  still 
pool  a  few  yards  beyond.  Below  the  great 
rocks  which  form  the  walls  of  the  Strid  was  be- 
lieved to  be  a  natural  vault,  on  to  whose  shelves 
the  dead  were  drawn.  The  spot  had  an  ugly 
fascination.  Weigall  stood,  visioning  skeletons, 
uncoffined  and  green,  the  home  of  the  eyeless 
things  which  had  devoured  all  that  had  covered 
and  filled  that  rattling  symbol  of  man's  mortal- 
ity; then  fell  to  wondering  if  any  one  had  at- 
tempted to  leap  the  Strid  of  late.  It  was  cov- 
ered with  slime;  he  had  never  seen  it  look  so 
treacherous. 

He  shuddered  and  turned  away,  impelled,  de- 
spite his  manhood,  to  flee  the  spot.  As  he  did  so, 


1  "This  striding  place  is  called  the  'Strid,' 

A  name  which  it  took  of  yore; 
A  thousand  years  hath  it  borne  the  name, 
And  it  shall  a  thousand  more." 

53 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 

something  tossing  in  the  foam  below  the  fall — 
something  as  white,  yet  independent  of  it — 
caught  his  eye  and  arrested  his  step.  Then  he 
saw  that  it  was  describing  a  contrary  motion  to 
the  rushing  water — an  upward  backward  motion. 
Weigall  stood  rigid,  breathless;  he  fancied  he 
heard  the  crackling  of  his  hair.  Was  that  a 
hand  ?  It  thrust  itself  still  higher  above  the  boil- 
ing foam,  turned  sidewise,  and  four  frantic  fingers 
were  distinctly  visible  against  the  black  rock  be- 
yond. 

WeigalFs  superstitious  terror  left  him.  A  man 
was  there,  struggling  to  free  himself  from  the  suc- 
tion beneath  the  Strid,  swept  down,  doubtless, 
but  a  moment  before  his  arrival,  perhaps  as  he 
stood  with  his  back  to  the  current. 

He  stepped  as  close  to  the  edge  as  he  dared. 
The  hand  doubled  as  if  in  imprecation,  shaking 
savagely  in  the  face  of  that  force  which  leaves  its 
creatures  to  immutable  law;  then  spread  wide 
again,  clutching,  expanding,  crying  for  help  as 
audibly  as  the  human  voice. 

Weigall  dashed  to  the  nearest  tree,  dragged  and 
twisted  off  a  branch  with  his  strong  arms,  and 
returned  as  swiftly  to  the  Strid.  The  hand  was 
in  the  same  place,  still  gesticulating  as  wildly;  the 
body  was  undoubtedly  caught  in  the  rocks  be- 
low, perhaps  already  half-way  along  one  of  those 

54 


The    Striding    Place 

hideous  shelves.  Weigall  let  himself  down  upon  a 
lower  rock,  braced  his  shoulder  against  the  mass 
beside  him,  then,  leaning  out  over  the  water,  thrust 
the  branch  into  the  hand.  The  fingers  clutched 
it  convulsively.  Weigall  tugged  powerfully,  his 
own  feet  dragged  perilously  near  the  edge.  For 
a  moment  he  produced  no  impression,  then  an 
arm  shot  above  the  waters. 

The  blood  sprang  to  WeigalTs  head;  he  was 
choked  with  the  impression  that  the  Strid  had 
him  in  her  roaring  hold,  and  he  saw  nothing. 
Then  the  mist  cleared.  The  hand  and  arm  were 
nearer,  although  the  rest  of  the  body  was  still  con- 
cealed by  the  foam.  Weigall  peered  out  with 
distended  eyes.  The  meagre  light  revealed  in  the 
cuffs  links  of  a  peculiar  device.  The  fingers 
clutching  the  branch  were  as  familiar. 

Weigall  forgot  the  slippery  stones,  the  terrible 
death  if  he  stepped  too  far.  He  pulled  with  pas- 
sionate will  and  muscle.  Memories  flung  them- 
selves into  the  hot  light  of  his  brain,  trooping 
rapidly  upon  each  other's  heels,  as  in  the  thought 
of  the  drowning.  Most  of  the  pleasures  of  his  life, 
good  and  bad,  were  identified  in  some  way  with 
this  friend.  Scenes  of  college  days,  of  travel, 
where  they  had  deliberately  sought  adventure 
and  stood  between  one  another  and  death  upon 
more  occasions  than  one,  of  hours  of  delightful 

55 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 

companionship  among  the  treasures  of  art,  and 
others  in  the  pursuit  of  pleasure,  flashed  like  the 
changing  particles  of  a  kaleidoscope.  Weigall 
had  loved  several  women;  but  he  would  have 
flouted  in  these  moments  the  thought  that  he  had 
ever  loved  any  woman  as  he  loved  Wyatt  Gifford. 
There  were  so  many  charming  women  in  the 
world,  and  in  the  thirty-two  years  of  his  life  he 
had  never  known  another  man  to  whom  he  had 
cared  to  give  his  intimate  friendship. 

He  threw  himself  on  his  face.  His  wrists  were 
cracking,  the  skin  was  torn  from  his  hands.  The 
fingers  still  gripped  the  stick.  There  was  life  in 
them  yet. 

Suddenly  something  gave  way.  The  hand 
swung  about,  tearing  the  branch  from  Weigall's 
grasp.  The  body  had  been  liberated  and  flung 
outward,  though  still  submerged  by  the  foam  and 
spray. 

Weigall  scrambled  to  his  feet  and  sprang  along 
the  rocks,  knowing  that  the  danger  from  suction 
was  over  and  that  Gifford  must  be  carried  straight 
to  the  quiet  pool.  Gifford  was  a  fish  in  the  water 
and  could  live  under  it  longer  than  most  men. 
If  he  survived  this,  it  would  not  be  the  first  time 
that  his  pluck  and  science  had  saved  him  from 
drowning. 

Weigall  reached  the  pool.     A  man  in  his  even- 

56 


The    Striding    Place 

ing  clothes  floated  on  it,  his  face  turned  towards 
a  projecting  rock  over  which  his  arm  had  fallen, 
upholding  the  body.  The  hand  that  had  held  the 
branch  hung  limply  over  the  rock,  its  white  re- 
flection visible  in  the  black  water.  Weigall 
plunged  into  the  shallow  pool,  lifted  Gifford  in 
his  arms  and  returned  to  the  bank.  He  laid  the 
body  down  and  threw  off  his  coat  that  he  might 
be  the  freer  to  practise  the  methods  of  resuscita- 
tion. He  was  glad  of  the  moment's  respite. 
The  valiant  life  in  the  man  might  have  been  ex- 
hausted in  that  last  struggle.  He  had  not  dared 
to  look  at  his  face,  to  put  his  ear  to  the  heart. 
The  hesitation  lasted  but  a  moment.  There  was 
no  time  to  lose. 

He  turned  to  his  prostrate  friend.  As  he  did 
so,  something  strange  and  disagreeable  smote  his 
senses.  For  a  half -moment  he  did  not  appreciate 
its  nature.  Then  his  teeth  clacked  together,  his 
feet,  his  outstretched  arms  pointed  towards  the 
woods.  But  he  sprang  to  the  side  of  the  man 
and  bent  down  and  peered  into  his  face.  There 
was  no  face. 


Ill 
The    Dead    and    the    Countess 

(Republished  from  the  Smart  Set) 


The    Dead    and    the    Countess 


was  an  old  cemetery,  and  they 
had  been  long  dead.  Those  who 
died  nowadays  were  put  in  the 
new  burying  -  place  on  the  hill, 
close  to  the  Bois  d' Amour  and 
within  sound  of  the  bells  that 
called  the  living  to  mass.  But  the  little  church 
where  the  mass  was  celebrated  stood  faithfully 
beside  the  older  dead ;  a  new  church,  indeed,  had 
not  been  built  in  that  forgotten  corner  of  Finis- 
terre  for  centuries,  not  since  the  calvary  on  its 
pile  of  stones  had  been  raised  in  the  tiny  square, 
surrounded  then,  as  now,  perhaps,  by  gray 
naked  cottages;  not  since  the  castle  with  its 
round  tower,  down  on  the  river,  had  been  erected 
for  the  Counts  of  Croisac.  But  the  stone  walls 
enclosing  that  ancient  cemetery  had  been  kept  in 
good  repair,  and  there  were  no  weeds  within,  nor 
toppling  headstones.  It  looked  cold  and  gray 
and  desolate,  like  all  the  cemeteries  of  Brittany, 

61 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 

but  it  was  made  hideous  neither  by  tawdry  gew- 
gaws nor  the  license  of  time. 

And  sometimes  it  was  close  to  a  picture  of 
beauty.  When  the  village  celebrated  its  yearly 
pardon,  a  great  procession  came  out  of  the  church 
— priests  in  glittering  robes,  young  men  in  their 
gala  costume  of  black  and  silver,  holding  flashing 
standards  aloft,  and  many  maidens  in  flapping 
white  head-dress  and  collar,  black  frocks  and 
aprons  flaunting  with  ribbons  and  lace.  They 
marched,  chanting,  down  the  road  beside  the  wall 
of  the  cemetery,  where  lay  the  generations  that 
in  their  day  had  held  the  banners  and  chanted  the 
service  of  the  pardon.  For  the  dead  were  peas- 
ants and  priests — the  Croisacs  had  their  burying- 
place  in  a  hollow  of  the  hills  behind  the  castle — 
old  men  and  women  who  had  wept  and  died  for 
the  fishermen  that  had  gone  to  the  grande  peche 
and  returned  no  more,  and  now  and  again  a  child, 
slept  there.  Those  who  walked  past  the  dead  at 
the  pardon,  or  after  the  marriage  ceremony,  or 
took  part  in  any  one  of  the  minor  religious  festi- 
vals with  which  the  Catholic  village  enlivens  its 
existence — all,  young  and  old,  looked  grave  and 
sad.  For  the  women  from  childhood  know  that 
their  lot  is  to  wait  and  dread  and  weep,  and  the 
men  that  the  ocean  is  treacherous  and  cruel,  but 
that  bread  can  be  wrung  from  no  other  master. 

62 


The    Dead    and    the    Countess 

Therefore  the  living  have  little  sympathy  for  the 
dead  who  have  laid  down  their  crushing  burden ; 
and  the  dead  under  their  stones  slumber  content- 
edly enough.  There  is  no  envy  among  them  for 
the  young  who  wander  at  evening  and  pledge 
their  troth  in  the  Bois  d'Amour,  only  pity  for 
the  groups  of  women  who  wash  their  linen 
in  the  creek  that  flows  to  the  river.  They 
look  like  pictures  in  the  green  quiet  book  of 
nature,  these  women,  in  their  glistening  white 
head-gear  and  deep  collars;  but  the  dead  know 
better  than  to  envy  them,  and  the  women — 
and  the  lovers — know  better  than  to  pity  the 
dead. 

The  dead  lay  at  rest  in  their  boxes  and  thanked 
God  they  were  quiet  and  had  found  everlasting 
peace. 

And  one  day  even  this,  for  which  they  had 
patiently  endured  life,  was  taken  from  them. 

The  village  was  picturesque  and  there  was 
none  quite  like  it,  even  in  Finisterre.  Artists 
discovered  it  and  made  it  famous.  After  the 
artists  followed  the  tourists,  and  the  old  creaking 
diligence  became  an  absurdity.  Brittany  was  the 
fashion  for  three  months  of  the  year,  and  wherever 
there  is  fashion  there  is  at  least  one  railway.  The 
one  built  to  satisfy  the  thousands  who  wished  to 
visit  the  wild,  sad  beauties  of  the  west  of  France 

63 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 

was  laid  along  the  road  beside  the  little  cemetery 
of  this  tale. 

It  takes  a  long  while  to  awaken  the  dead. 
These  heard  neither  the  voluble  working-men  nor 
even  the  first  snort  of  the  engine.  And,  of  course, 
they  neither  heard  nor  knew  of  the  pleadings  of 
the  old  priest  that  the  line  should  be  laid  else- 
where. One  night  he  came  out  into  the  old  cem- 
etery and  sat  on  a  grave  and  wept.  For  he  loved 
his  dead  and  felt  it  to  be  a  tragic  pity  that  the 
greed  of  money,  and  the  fever  of  travel,  and  the 
petty  ambitions  of  men  whose  place  was  in  the 
great  cities  where  such  ambitions  were  born, 
should  shatter  forever  the  holy  calm  of  those  who 
had  suffered  so  much  on  earth.  He  had  known 
many  of  them  in  life,  for  he  was  very  old;  and 
although  he  believed,  like  all  good  Catholics,  in 
heaven  and  purgatory  and  hell,  yet  he  always 
saw  his  friends  as  he  had  buried  them,  peace- 
fully asleep  in  their  coffins,  the  souls  lying  with 
folded  hands  like  the  bodies  that  held  them,  pa- 
tiently awaiting  the  final  call.  He  would  never 
have  told  you,  this  good  old  priest,  that  he  be- 
lieved heaven  to  be  a  great  echoing  palace  in 
which  God  and  the  archangels  dwelt  alone  wait- 
ing for  that  great  day  when  the  elected  dead 
should  rise  and  enter  the  Presence  together, 
for  he  was  a  simple  old  man  who  had  read 

64 


The    Dead    and    the    Countess 

and  thought  little ;  but  he  had  a  zigzag  of  fancy 
in  his  humble  mind,  and  he  saw  his  friends 
and  his  ancestors'  friends  as  I  have  related  to 
you,  soul  and  body  in  the  deep  undreaming 
sleep  of  death,  but  sleep,  not  a  rotted  body  de- 
serted by  its  affrighted  mate;  and  to  all  who 
sleep  there  comes,  sooner  or  later,  the  time  of 
awakening. 

He  knew  that  they  had  slept  through  the  wild 
storms  that  rage  on  the  coast  of  Finisterre,  when 
ships  are  flung  on  the  rocks  and  trees  crash  down 
in  the  Bois  d' Amour.  He  knew  that  the  soft, 
slow  chantings  of  the  pardon  never  struck  a 
chord  in  those  frozen  memories,  meagre  and 
monotonous  as  their  store  had  been ;  nor  the  bag- 
pipes down  in  the  open  village  hall — a  mere  roof 
on  poles — when  the  bride  and  her  friends  danced 
for  three  days  without  a  smile  on  their  sad  brown 
faces. 

All  this  the  dead  had  known  in  life  and  it  could 
not  disturb  nor  interest  them  now.  But  that 
hideous  intruder  from  modern  civilization,  a  train 
of  cars  with  a  screeching  engine,  that  would  shake 
the  earth  which  held  them  and  rend  the  peaceful 
air  with  such  discordant  sounds  that  neither  dead 
nor  living  could  sleep!  His  life  had  been  one 
long  unbroken  sacrifice,  and  he  sought  in  vain 
to  imagine  one  greater,  which  he  would  cheer- 

65 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 

fully  assume   could  this  disaster  be  spared  his 
dead. 

But  the  railway  was  built,  and  the  first  night 
the  train  went  screaming  by,  shaking  the  earth 
and  rattling  the  windows  of  the  church,  he  went 
out  and  sprinkled  every  grave  with  holy-water. 

And  thereafter,  twice  a  day,  at  dawn  and  at 
night,  as  the  train  tore  a  noisy  tunnel  in  the  quiet 
air,  like  the  plebeian  upstart  it  was,  he  sprinkled 
every  grave,  rising  sometimes  from  a  bed  of  pain, 
at  other  times  defying  wind  and  rain  and  hail. 
And  for  a  while  he  believed  that  his  holy  device 
had  deepened  the  sleep  of  his  dead,  locked  them 
beyond  the  power  of  man  to  awake.  But  one 
night  he  heard  them  muttering. 

It  was  late.  There  were  but  a  few  stars  on  a 
black  sky.  Not  a  breath  of  wind  came  over  the 
lonely  plains  beyond,  or  from  the  sea.  There 
would  be  no  wrecks  to-night,  and  all  the  world 
seemed  at  peace.  The  lights  were  out  in  the  vil- 
lage. One  burned  in  the  tower  of  Croisac,  where 
the  young  wife  of  the  count  lay  ill.  The  priest 
had  been  with  her  when  the  train  thundered  by, 
and  she  had  whispered  to  him: 

"Would  that  I  were  on  it!  Oh,  this  lonely 
lonely  land!  this  cold  echoing  chateau,  with  no 
one  to  speak  to  day  after  day!  If  it  kills  me, 
mon  p&re,  make  him  lay  me  in  the  cemetery  by 

66 


The    Dead    and    the    Countess 

the  road,  that  twice  a  day  I  may  hear  the  train 
go  by — the  train  that  goes  to  Paris !  If  they  put 
me  down  there  over  the  hill,  I  will  shriek  in  my 
coffin  every  night." 

The  priest  had  ministered  as  best  he  could  to 
the  ailing  soul  of  the  young  noblewoman,  with 
whose  like  he  seldom  dealt,  and  hastened  back  to 
his  dead.  He  mused,  as  he  toiled  along  the  dark 
road  with  rheumatic  legs,  on  the  fact  that  the 
woman  should  have  the  same  fancy  as  himself. 

"  If  she  is  really  sincere,  poor  young  thing,"  he 
thought  aloud,  "  I  will  forbear  to  sprinkle  holy- 
water  on  her  grave.  For  those  who  suffer  while 
alive  should  have  all  they  desire  after  death,  and 
I  am  afraid  the  qount  neglects  her.  But  I  pray 
God  that  my  dead  have  not  heard  that  monster 
to-night."  And  he  tucked  his  gown  under  his 
arm  and  hurriedly  told  his  rosary. 

But  when  he  went  about  among  the  graves  with 
the  holy-water  he  heard  the  dead  muttering. 

"Jean-Marie,"  said  a  voice,  fumbling  among 
its  unused  tones  for  forgotten  notes,  "art  thou 
ready?  Surely  that  is  the  last  call." 

"Nay,  nay,"  rumbled  another  voice,  "that  is 
not  the  sound  of  a  trumpet,  Francois.  That  will 
be  sudden  and  loud  and  sharp,  like  the  great 
blasts  of  the  north  when  they  come  plunging  over 
the  sea  from  out  the  awful  gorges  of  Iceland. 

67 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 

Dost  thou  remember  them,  Francois?  Thank 
the  good  God  they  spared  us  to  die  in  our  beds 
with  our  grandchildren  about  us  and  only  the 
little  wind  sighing  in  the  Bois  d'Amour.  Ah,  the 
poor  comrades  that  died  in  their  manhood,  that 
went  to  the  grande  peche  once  too  often!  Dost 
thou  remember  when  the  great  wave  curled  round 
Tgnace  like  his  poor  wife's  arms,  and  we  saw  him 
no  more?  We  clasped  each  other's  hands,  for 
we  believed  that  we  should  follow,  but  we  lived 
and  went  again  and  again  to  the  grande  peche, 
and  died  in  our  beds.  Grdce  a  Dieu!" 

"  Why  dost  thou  think  of  that  now — here  in  the 
grave  where  it  matters  not,  even  to  the  living?" 

"I  know  not;  but  it  was  of  that  night  when 
Ignace  went  down  that  I  thought  as  the  living 
breath  went  out  of  me.  Of  what  didst  thou  think 
as  thou  layest  dying?" 

"  Of  the  money  I  owed  to  Dominique  and  could 
not  pay.  I  sought  to  ask  my  son  to  pay  it,  but 
death  had  come  suddenly  and  I  could  not  speak. 
God  knows  how  they  treat  my  name  to-day  in  the 
village  of  St.  Hilaire." 

"  Thou  art  forgotten,"  murmured  another  voice. 
"  I  died  forty  years  after  thee  and  men  remember 
not  so  long  in  Finisterre.  But  thy  son  was  my 
friend  and  I  remember  that  he  paid  the  money." 

"  And  my  son,  what  of  him  ?  Is  he,  too,  here  ?' ' 
68 


The    Dead    and    the    Countess 

"Nay;  he  lies  deep  in  the  northern  sea.  It 
was  his  second  voyage,  and  he  had  returned  with 
a  purse  for  the  young  wife,  the  first  time.  But 
he  returned  no  more,  and  she  washed  in  the  river 
for  the  dames  of  Croisac,  and  by-and-by  she  died. 
I  would  have  married  her,  but  she  said  it  was 
enough  to  lose  one  husband.  I  married  another, 
and  she  grew  ten  years  in  every  three  that  I  went 
to  the  grande  peche.  Alas  for  Brittany,  she  has 
no  youth!" 

'  *  And  thou  ?  Wert  thou  an  old  man  when  thou 
earnest  here?" 

"Sixty.  My  wife  came  first,  like  many  wives. 
She  lies  here.  Jeanne!" 

"Is't  thy  voice,  my  husband?  Not  the  Lord 
Jesus  Christ's  ?  What  miracle  is  this  ?  I  thought 
that  terrible  sound  was  the  trump  of  doom." 

"  It  could  not  be,  old  Jeanne,  for  we  are  still  in 
our  graves.  When  the  trump  sounds  we  shall 
have  wings  and  robes  of  light,  and  fly  straight  up 
to  heaven.  Hast  thou  slept  well?" 

"Ay!  But  why  are  we  awakened?  Is  it 
time  for  purgatory  ?  Or  have  we  been  there  ?" 

"The  good  God  knows.  I  remember  nothing. 
Art  frightened?  Would  that  I  could  hold  thy 
hand,  as  when  thou  didst  slip  from  life  into  that 
long  sleep  thou  didst  fear,  yet  welcome." 

"'I  am  frightened,  my  husband.  But  it  is 
69 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 

sweet  to  hear  thy  voice,  hoarse  and  hollow  as  it 
is  from  the  mould  of  the  grave.  Thank  the  good 
God  thou  didst  bury  me  with  the  rosary  in  my 
hands,"  and  she  began  telling  the  beads  rapidly. 

"If  God  is  good,"  cried  Francois,  harshly,  and 
his  voice  came  plainly  to  the  priest's  ears,  as  if  the 
lid  of  the  coffin  had  rotted,  "why  are  we  awa- 
kened before  our  time  ?  What  foul  fiend  was  it 
that  thundered  and  screamed  through  the  frozen 
avenues  of  my  brain  ?  Has  God,  perchance,  been 
vanquished  and  does  the  Evil  One  reign  in  His 
stead?" 

"Tut,  tut!  Thou  blasphemest!  God  reigns, 
now  and  always.  It  is  but  a  punishment  He  has 
laid  upon  us  for  the  sins  of  earth." 

"Truly,  we  were  punished  enough  before  we 
descended  to  the  peace  of  this  narrow  house. 
Ah,  but  it  is  dark  and  cold !  Shall  we  lie  like  this 
for  an  eternity,  perhaps?  On  earth  we  longed 
for  death,  but  feared  the  grave.  I  would  that  I 
were  alive  again,  poor  and  old  and  alone  and  in 
pain.  It  were  better  than  this.  Curse  the  foul 
fiend  that  woke  us!" 

"Curse  not,  my  son,"  said  a  soft  voice,  and  the 
priest  stood  up  and  uncovered  and  crossed  him- 
self, for  it  was  the  voice  of  his  aged  predecessor. 
"I  cannot  tell  thee  what  this  is  that  has  rudely 
shaken  us  in  our  graves  and  freed  our  spirits  of 


The    Dead    and    the    Countess 

their  blessed  thraldom,  and  I  like  not  the  con- 
sciousness of  this  narrow  house,  this  load  of  earth 
on  my  tired  heart.  But  it  is  right,  it  must  be 
right,  or  it  would  not  be  at  all — ah,  me!" 

For  a  baby  cried  softly,  hopelessly,  and  from  a 
grave  beyond  came  a  mother's  anguished  attempt 
to  still  it. 

"Ah,  the  good  God!"  she  cried.  "I,  too, 
thought  it  was  the  great  call,  and  that  in  a  mo- 
ment I  should  rise  and  find  my  child  and  go  to  my 
Ignace,  my  Ignace  whose  bones  lie  white  on  the 
floor  of  the  sea.  Will  he  find  them,  my  father, 
when  the  dead  shall  rise  again  ?  To  lie  here  and 
doubt! — that  were  worse  than  life." 

'  *  Yes,  yes,"  said  the  priest ;  * '  all  will  be  well,  my 
daughter." 

"But  all  is  not  well,  my  father,  for  my  baby 
cries  and  is  alone  in  a  little  box  in  the  ground. 
If  I  could  claw  my  way  to  her  with  my  hands — 
but  my  old  mother  lies  between  us." 

"Tell  your  beads!"  commanded  the  priest, 
sternly — "  tell  your  beads,  all  of  you.  All  ye  that 
have  not  your  beads,  say  the  'Hail  Mary!'  one 
hundred  times." 

Immediately  a  rapid,  monotonous  muttering 
arose  from  every  lonely  chamber  of  that  dese- 
crated ground.  All  obeyed  but  the  baby,  who 
still  moaned  with  the  hopeless  grief  of  deserted 

7i 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 

children.  The  living  priest  knew  that  they 
would  talk  no  more  that  night,  and  went  into  the 
church  to  pray  till  dawn.  He  was  sick  with  hor- 
ror and  terror,  but  not  for  himself.  When  the 
sky  was  pink  and  the  air  full  of  the  sweet  scents 
of  morning,  and  a  piercing  scream  tore  a  rent  in 
the  early  silences,  he  hastened  out  and  sprinkled 
his  graves  with  a  double  allowance  of  holy-water. 
The  train  rattled  by  with  two  short  derisive 
shrieks,  and  before  the  earth  had  ceased  to  trem- 
ble the  priest  laid  his  ear  to  the  ground.  Alas, 
they  were  still  awake! 

"The  fiend  is  on  the  wing  again,"  said  Jean- 
Marie;  "but  as  he  passed  I  felt  as  if  the  finger  of 
God  touched  my  brow.  It  can  do  us  no  harm." 

"I,  too,  felt  that  heavenly  caress!"  exclaimed 
the  old  priest.  "And  I !"  " And  I !"  "And  I !" 
came  from  every  grave  but  the  baby's. 

The  priest  of  earth,  deeply  thankful  that  his 
simple  device  had  comforted  them,  went  rapidly 
down  the  road  to  the  castle.  He  forgot  that  he 
had  not  broken  his  fast  nor  slept.  The  count  was 
one  of  the  directors  of  the  railroad,  and  to  him 
he  would  make  a  final  appeal. 

It  was  early,  but  no  one  slept  at  Croisac.  The 
young  countess  was  dead.  A  great  bishop  had 
arrived  in  the  night  and  administered  extreme 
unction.  The  priest  hopefully  asked  if  he  might 

72 


The    Dead    and    the    Countess 

venture  into  the  presence  of  the  bishop.  After  a 
long  wait  in  the  kitchen,  he  was  told  that  he  could 
speak  with  Monsieur  VEveque.  He  followed  the 
servant  up  the  wide  spiral  stair  of  the  tower,  and 
from  its  twenty-eighth  step  entered  a  room  hung 
with  purple  cloth  stamped  with  golden  fleurs-de- 
lis.  The  bishop  lay  six  feet  above  the  floor  on 
one  of  the  splendid  carved  cabinet  beds  that 
are  built  against  the  walls  in  Brittany.  Heavy 
curtains  shaded  his  cold  white  face.  The  priest, 
who  was  small  and  bowed,  felt  immeasurably 
below  that  august  presence,  and  sought  for  words. 

"  What  is  it,  my  son?"  asked  the  bishop,  in  his 
cold  weary  voice.  "Is  the  matter  so  pressing? 
I  am  very  tired." 

Brokenly,  nervously,  the  priest  told  his  story, 
and  as  he  strove  to  convey  the  tragedy  of  the 
tormented  dead  he  not  only  felt  the  poverty  of  his 
expression — for  he  was  little  used  to  narrative — 
but  the  torturing  thought  assailed  him  that  what 
he  said  sounded  wild  and  unnatural,  real  as  it 
was  to  him.  But  he  was  not  prepared  for  its  ef- 
fect on  the  bishop.  He  was  standing  in  the  mid- 
dle of  the  room,  whose  gloom  was  softened  and 
gilded  by  the  waxen  lights  of  a  huge  candelabra ; 
his  eyes,  which  had  wandered  unseeingly  from 
one  massive  piece  of  carved  furniture  to  another, 
suddenly  lit  on  the  bed,  and  he  stopped  abruptly, 

73 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 

his  tongue  rolling  out.    The  bishop  was  sitting  up, 
livid  with  wrath. 

"And  this  was  thy  matter  of  life  and  death, 
thou  prating  madman!"  he  thundered.  "For 
this  string  of  foolish  lies  I  am  kept  from  my  rest, 
as  if  I  were  another  old  lunatic  like  thyself !  Thou 
art  not  fit  to  be  a  priest  and  have  the  care  of 
souls.  To-morrow — " 

But  the  priest  had  fled,  wringing  his  hands. 

As  he  stumbled  down  the  winding  stair  he  ran 
straight  into  the  arms  of  the  count.  Monsieur  de 
Croisac  had  just  closed  a  door  behind  him.  He 
opened  it,  and,  leading  the  priest  into  the  room, 
pointed  to  his  dead  countess,  who  lay  high  up 
against  the  wall,  her  hands  clasped,  unmindful 
for  evermore  of  the  six  feet  of  carved  cupids  and 
lilies  that  upheld  her.  On  high  pedestals  at  head 
and  foot  of  her  magnificent  couch  the  pale  flames 
rose  from  tarnished  golden  candlesticks.  The 
blue  hangings  of  the  room,  with  their  white  fleurs- 
de-lis,  were  faded,  like  the  rugs  on  the  old  dim 
floor;  for  the  splendor  of  the  Croisacs  had  de- 
parted with  the  Bourbons.  The  count  lived  in 
the  old  chateau  because  he  must ;  but  he  reflected 
bitterly  to-night  that  if  he  had  made  the  mistake 
of  bringing  a  young  girl  to  it,  there  were  several 
things  he  might  have  done  to  save  her  from  de- 
spair and  death. 

74 


The    Dead    and    the    Countess 

"Pray  for  her,"  he  said  to  the  priest.  "And 
you  will  bury  her  in  the  old  cemetery.  It  was 
her  last  request." 

He  went  out,  and  the  priest  sank  on  his  knees 
and  mumbled  his  prayers  for  the  dead.  But 
his  eyes  wandered  to  the  high  narrow  windows 
through  which  the  countess  had  stared  for  hours 
and  days,  stared  at  the  fishermen  sailing  north 
for  the  grande  peche,  followed  along  the  shore  of 
the  river  by  wives  and  mothers,  until  their  boats 
were  caught  in  the  great  waves  of  the  ocean  be- 
yond; often  at  naught  more  animate  than  the 
dark  flood,  the  wooded  banks,  the  ruins,  the  rain 
driving  like  needles  through  the  water.  The 
priest  had  eaten  nothing  since  his  meagre 
breakfast  at  twelve  the  day  before,  and  his 
imagination  was  active.  He  wondered  if  the  soul 
up  there  rejoiced  in  the  death  of  the  beautiful 
restless  body,  the  passionate  brooding  mind. 
He  could  not  see  her  face  from  where  he  knelt, 
only  the  waxen  hands  clasping  a  crucifix.  He 
wondered  if  the  face  were  peaceful  in  death,  or 
peevish  and  angry  as  when  he  had  seen  it  last. 
If  the  great  change  had  smoothed  and  sealed  it, 
then  perhaps  the  soul  would  sink  deep  under  the 
dark  waters,  grateful  for  oblivion,  and  that 
cursed  train  could  not  awaken  it  for  years  to 
come.  Curiosity  succeeded  wonder.  He  cut  his 

75 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 

prayers  short,  got  to  his  weary  swollen  feet  and 
pushed  a  chair  to  the  bed.  He  mounted  it  and 
his  face  was  close  to  the  dead  woman's.  Alas!  it 
was  not  peaceful.  It  was  stamped  with  the  trag- 
edy of  a  bitter  renunciation.  After  all,  she  had 
been  young,  and  at  the  last  had  died  unwillingly. 
There  was  still  a  fierce  tenseness  about  the  nos- 
trils, and  her  upper  lip  was  curled  as  if  her  last 
word  had  been  an  imprecation.  But  she  was 
very  beautiful,  despite  the  emaciation  of  her  feat- 
ures. Her  black  hair  nearly  covered  the  bed, 
and  her  lashes  looked  too  heavy  for  the  sunken 
cheeks. 

' '  Pauvre  petite  /"  thought  the  priest.  ' '  No,  she 
will  not  rest,  nor  would  she  wish  to.  I  will  not 
sprinkle  holy -water  on  her  grave.  It  is  won- 
drous that  monster  can  give  comfort  to  any  one, 
but  if  he  can,  so  be  it.'* 

He  went  into  the  little  oratory  adjoining  the 
bedroom  and  prayed  more  fervently.  But  when 
the  watchers  came  an  hour  later  they  found  him 
in  a  stupor,  huddled  at  the  foot  of  the  altar. 

When  he  awoke  he  was  in  his  own  bed  in  his 
little  house  beside  the  church.  But  it  was  four 
days  before  they  would  let  him  rise  to  go  about 
his  duties,  and  by  that  time  the  countess  was  in 
her  grave. 

The  old  housekeeper  left  him  to  take  care  of 
76 


The    Dead    and    the    Countess 

himself.  He  waited  eagerly  for  the  night.  It 
was  raining  thinly,  a  gray  quiet  rain  that  blurred 
the  landscape  and  soaked  the  ground  in  the  Bois 
d' Amour.  It  was  wet  about  the  graves,  too ;  but 
the  priest  had  given  little  heed  to  the  elements  in 
his  long  life  of  crucified  self,  and  as  he  heard  the 
remote  echo  of  the  evening  train  he  hastened  out 
with  his  holy -water  and  had  sprinkled  every 
grave  but  one  when  the  train  sped  by. 

Then  he  knelt  and  listened  eagerly.  It  was 
five  days  since  he  had  knelt  there  last.  Perhaps 
they  had  sunk  again  to  rest.  In  a  moment  he 
wrung  his  hands  and  raised  them  to  heaven. 
All  the  earth  beneath  him  was  filled  with  lamen- 
tation. They  wailed  for  mercy,  for  peace,  for 
rest ;  they  cursed  the  foul  fiend  who  had  shattered 
the  locks  of  death;  and  among  the  voices  of  men 
and  children  the  priest  distinguished  the  quaver- 
ing notes  of  his  aged  predecessor;  not  cursing,  but 
praying  with  bitter  entreaty.  The  baby  was 
screaming  with  the  accents  of  mortal  terror  and 
its  mother  was  too  frantic  to  care. 

''Alas,"  cried  the  voice  of  Jean-Marie,  "that 
they  never  told  us  what  purgatory  was  like! 
What  do  the  priests  know?  When  we  were 
threatened  with  punishment  of  our  sins  not  a  hint 
did  we  have  of  this.  To  sleep  for  a  few  hours, 
haunted  with  the  moment  of  awakening!  Then  a 

77 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 

cruel  insult  from  the  earth  that  is  tired  of  us,  and 
the  orchestra  of  hell.  Again!  and  again!  and 
again !  Oh  God !  How  long  ?  How  long  ?" 

The  priest  stumbled  to  his  feet  and  ran  over 
graves  and  paths  to  the  mound  above  the  coun- 
tess. There  he  would  hear  a  voice  praising  the 
monster  of  night  and  dawn,  a  note  of  content  in 
this  terrible  chorus  of  despair  which  he  believed 
would  drive  him  mad.  He  vowed  that  on  the 
morrow  he  would  move  his  dead,  if  he  had  to  un- 
bury  them  with  his  own  hands  and  carry  them 
up  the  hill  to  graves  of  his  own  making. 

For  a  moment  he  heard  no  sound.  He  knelt 
and  laid  his  ear  to  the  grave,  then  pressed  it  more 
closely  and  held  his  breath.  A  long  rumbling 
moan  reached  it,  then  another  and  another.  But 
there  were  no  words. 

4 'Is  she  moaning  in  sympathy  with  my  poor 
friends?"  he  thought;  "or  have  they  terrified 
her?  Why  does  she  not  speak  to  them?  Per- 
haps they  would  forget  their  plight  were  she  to 
tell  them  of  the  world  they  have  left  so  long. 
But  it  was  not  their  world.  Perhaps  that  it  is 
which  distresses  her,  for  she  will  be  lonelier  here 
than  on  earth.  Ah!" 

A  sharp  horrified  cry  pierced  to  his  ears,  then 
a  gasping  shriek,  and  another;  all  dying  away  in 
a  dreadful  smothered  rumble. 

78 


The    Dead    and    the    Countess 

The  priest  rose  and  wrung  his  hands,  looking  to 
the  wet  skies  for  inspiration. 

"Alas!"  he  sobbed,  "she  is  not  content.  She 
has  made  a  terrible  mistake.  She  would  rest  in 
the  deep  sweet  peace  of  death,  and  that  monster 
of  iron  and  fire  and  the  frantic  dead  about  her  are 
tormenting  a  soul  so  tormented  in  life.  There 
may  be  rest  for  her  in  the  vault  behind  the  castle, 
but  not  here.  I  know,  and  I  shall  do  my  duty — 
now,  at  once." 

He  gathered  his  robes  about  him  and  ran  as 
fast  as  his  old  legs  and  rheumatic  feet  would  take 
him  towards  the  chateau,  whose  lights  gleamed 
through  the  rain.  On  the  bank  of  the  river  he 
met  a  fisherman  and  begged  to  be  taken  by  boat. 
The  fisherman  wondered,  but  picked  the  priest 
up  in  his  strong  arms,  lowered  him  into  the  boat, 
and  rowed  swiftly  towards  the  chateau.  When 
they  landed  he  made  fast. 

"  I  will  wait  for  you  in  the  kitchen,  my  father," 
he  said;  and  the  priest  blessed  him  and  hurried 
up  to  the  castle. 

Once  more  he  entered  through  the  door  of  the 
great  kitchen,  with  its  blue  tiles,  its  glittering 
brass  and  bronze  warming-pans  which  had  com- 
forted nobles  and  monarchs  in  the  days  of  Croisac 
splendor.  He  sank  into  a  chair  beside  the  stove 
while  a  maid  hastened  to  the  count.  She  re- 

79 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 

turned  while  the  priest  was  still  shivering,  and 
announced  that  her  master  would  see  his  holy 
visitor  in  the  library. 

It  was  a  dreary  room  where  the  count  sat  wait- 
ing for  the  priest,  and  it  smelled  of  musty  calf,  for 
the  books  on  the  shelves  were  old.  A  few  novels 
and  newspapers  lay  on  the  heavy  table,  a  fire 
burned  on  the  andirons,  but  the  paper  on  the 
wall  was  very  dark  and  the  fleurs-de-lis  were 
tarnished  and  dull.  The  count,  when  at  home, 
divided  his  time  between  this  library  and  the 
water,  when  he  could  not  chase  the  boar  or  the 
stag  in  the  forests.  But  he  often  went  to  Paris, 
where  he  could  afford  the  life  of  a  bachelor  in  a 
wing  of  his  great  hotel;  he  had  known  too  much 
of  the  extravagance  of  women  to  give  his  wife  the 
key  of  the  faded  salons.  He  had  loved  the  beau- 
tiful girl  when  he  married  her,  but  her  repinings 
and  bitter  discontent  had  alienated  him,  and 
during  the  past  year  he  had  held  himself  aloof 
from  her  in  sullen  resentment.  Too  late  he 
understood,  and  dreamed  passionately  of  atone- 
ment. She  had  been  a  high-spirited  brilliant 
eager  creature,  and  her  unsatisfied  mind  had 
dwelt  constantly  on  the  world  she  had  vividly 
enjoyed  for  one  year.  And  he  had  given  her  so 
little  in  return! 

He  rose  as  the  priest  entered,  and  bowed  low. 
80 


The    Dead    and    the    Countess 

The  visit  bored  him,  but  the  good  old  priest  com- 
manded his  respect ;  moreover,  he  had  performed 
many  offices  and  rites  in  his  family.  He  moved 
a  chair  towards  his  guest,  but  the  old  man  shook 
his  head  and  nervously  twisted  his  hands  to- 
gether. 

"Alas,  monsieur  le  comte"  he  said,  "it  may  be 
that  you,  too,  will  tell  me  that  I  am  an  old  luna- 
tic, as  did  Monsieur  VEveque.  Yet  I  must  speak, 
even  if  you  tell  your  servants  to  fling  me  out  of 
the  chateau." 

The  count  had  started  slightly.  He  recalled 
certain  acid  comments  of  the  bishop,  followed  by 
a  statement  that  a  young  cure  should  be  sent, 
gently  to  supersede  the  old  priest,  who  was  in  his 
dotage.  But  he  replied  suavely: 

"You  know,  my  father,  that  no  one  in  this 
castle  will  ever  show  you  disrespect.  Say  what 
you  wish;  have  no  fear.  But  will  you  not  sit 
down  ?  I  am  very  tired." 

The  priest  took  the  chair  and  fixed  his  eyes 
appealmgly  on  the  count. 

"  It  is  this,  monsieur."  He  spoke  rapidly,  lest 
his  courage  should  go.  "That  terrible  train, 
with  its  brute  of  iron  and  live  coals  and  foul 
smoke  and  screeching  throat,  has  awakened  my 
dead.  I  guarded  them  with  holy-water  and  they 
heard  it  not,  until  one  night  when  I  missed — I 

81 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 

was  with  madame  as  the  train  shrieked  by  shak- 
ing the  nails  out  of  the  coffins.  I  hurried  back, 
but  the  mischief  was  done,  the  dead  were  awake, 
the  dear  sleep  of  eternity  was  shattered.  They 
thought  it  was  the  last  trump  and  wondered  why 
they  still  were  in  their  graves.  But  they  talked 
together  and  it  was  not  so  bad  at  the  first.  But 
now  they  are  frantic.  They  are  in  hell,  and  I 
have  come  to  beseech  you  to  see  that  they  are 
moved  far  up  on  the  hill.  Ah,  think,  think,  mon- 
sieur, what  it  is  to  have  the  last  long  sleep  of  the 
grave  so  rudely  disturbed — the  sleep  for  which 
we  live  and  endure  so  patiently!" 

He  stopped  abruptly  and  caught  his  breath. 
The  count  had  listened  without  change  of  counte- 
nance, convinced  that  he  was  facing  a  madman. 
But  the  farce  wearied  him,  and  involuntarily 
his  hand  had  moved  towards  a  bell  on  the 
table. 

4 'Ah,  monsieur,  not  yet!  not  yet!"  panted  the 
priest.  "It  is  of  the  countess  I  came  to  speak. 
I  had  forgotten.  She  told  me  she  wished  to  lie 
there  and  listen  to  the  train  go  by  to  Paris,  so  I 
sprinkled  no  holy-water  on  her  grave.  But  she, 
too,  is  wretched  and  horror-stricken,  monsieur. 
She  moans  and  screams.  Her  coffin  is  new  and 
strong,  and  I  cannot  hear  her  words,  but  I  have 
heard  those  frightful  sounds  from  her  grave  to- 

82 


The    Dead    and    the    Countess      . 

night,  monsieur;  I  swear  it  on  the  cross.  Ah, 
monsieur,  thou  dost  believe  me  at  last!" 

For  the  count,  as  white  as  the  woman  had  been 
in  her  coffin,  and  shaking  from  head  to  foot,  had 
staggered  from  his  chair  and  was  staring  at  the 
priest  as  if  he  saw  the  ghost  of  his  countess. 

"  You  heard — ?"  he  gasped. 

"She  is  not  at  peace,  monsieur.  She  moans 
and  shrieks  in  a  terrible,  smothered  way,  as  if  a 
hand  were  on  her  mouth — " 

But  he  had  uttered  the  last  of  his  words.  The 
count  had  suddenly  recovered  himself  and  dashed 
from  the  room.  The  priest  passed  his  hand 
across  his  forehead  and  sank  slowly  to  the  floor. 

"He  will  see  that  I  spoke  the  truth,"  he 
thought,  as  he  fell  asleep,  "and  to-morrow  he 
will  intercede  for  my  poor  friends." 

The  priest  lies  high  on  the  hill  where  no  train 
will  ever  disturb  him,  and  his  old  comrades  of  the 
violated  cemetery  are  close  about  him.  For  the 
Count  and  Countess  of  Croisac,  who  adore  his 
memory,  hastened  to  give  him  in  death  what  he 
most  had  desired  in  the  last  of  his  life.  And  with 
them  all  things  are  well,  for  a  man,  too,  may  be 
born  again,  and  without  descending  into  the 
grave. 


IV 

The     Greatest     Good     of    the 
Greatest     Number 


The     Greatest     Good     of    the 
Greatest     Number 


iORTON  ELAINE  returned  to 
New  York  from  his  brief  vaca- 
tion to  find  awaiting  him  a  fran- 
tic note  from  John  Schuyler,  the 
man  nearer  to  him  than  any 
'save  himself,  imploring  him  to 
"come  at  once."  The  appeal  was  supplemented 
with  the  usual  intimation  that  the  service  was  to 
be  rendered  to  God  rather  than  to  man. 

The  note  was  twenty-four  hours  old.  Elaine, 
without  changing  his  travelling  clothes,  rang  for 
a  cab  and  was  driven  rapidly  up  the  Avenue. 
He  was  a  man  of  science,  not  of  enthusiasms,  cold, 
unerring,  brilliant ;  a  superb  intellectual  machine, 
which  never  showed  a  fleck  of  rust,  unremittingly 
polished,  and  enlarged  with  every  improvement. 
But  for  one  man  he  cherished  an  abiding  sym- 
pathy; to  that  man  he  hastened  on  the  slightest 
summons,  as  he  hastened  now.  They  had  been 

87 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 

intimate  in  boyhood ;  then  in  later  years  through 
mutual  respect  for  each  other's  high  abilities  and 
ambitions. 

As  the  cab  rolled  over  the  asphalt  of  the 
Avenue,  Elaine  glanced  idly  at  the  stream  of 
carriages  returning  from  the  Park,  lifting  his  hat 
to  many  of  the  languid  pretty  women.  He  owed 
his  minor  fame  to  his  guardianship  of  fashionable 
nerves.  He  could  calm  hysteria  with  a  pressure 
of  his  cool  flexible  hand  or  a  sudden  modulation 
of  his  harsh  voice.  And  women  dreaded  his 
wrath.  There  were  those  who  averred  that  his 
eyes  could  smoke. 

He  leaned  forward  and  raised  his  hat  with  sud- 
den interest.  She  who  returned  his  bow  was  as 
cold  in  her  coloring  as  a  winter  night,  but  pos- 
sessed a  strength  of  line  and  depth  of  eye  which 
suggested  to  the  analyst  her  power  to  give  the 
world  a  shock  did  Circumstance  cease  to  run 
abreast  of  her.  She  was  leaning  back  indolently 
in  the  open  carriage,  the  sun  slanting  into  her 
luminous  skin  and  eyes,  her  face  locked  for  the 
benefit  of  the  chance  observer,  although  she  con- 
versed with  the  faded  individual  at  her  side. 
As  her  eyes  met  those  of  the  doctor  her  mouth 
convulsed  suddenly,  and  a  glance  of  mutual  un- 
derstanding passed  between  them.  Then  she  raised 
her  head  with  a  defiant,  almost  reckless  movement. 

88 


The    Greatest    Good 

Blaine  reached  his  friend's  house  in  a  moment. 
The  man  who  had  summoned  him  was  walking 
aimlessly  up  and  down  his  library.  He  was  un- 
shaven ;  his  hair  and  his  clothing  were  disordered. 
His  face  had  the  modern  beauty  of  strength  and 
intellect  and  passion  and  weakness.  A  flash  of 
relief  illuminated  it  as  Blaine  entered. 

"She  has  been  terrible!"  he  said.  "Terrible! 
I  have  not  had  the  courage  to  call  in  any  one 
else,  and  I  am  worn  out.  She  is  asleep  now, 
and  I  got  out  of  the  room  for  half  an  hour. 
The  nurse  is  exhausted  too.  Do  stay  to- 
night." 

"I  will  stay.     Let  us  go  up-stairs." 

As  they  reached  the  second  landing  two  hand- 
some children  romped  across  the  hall  and  flung 
themselves  upon  their  father. 

"Where  have  you  been?"  they  demanded. 
"Why  do  you  shut  yourself  up  on  the  third  floor 
with  mamma  all  the  time?  When  will  she  get 
well?" 

Schuyler  kissed  them  and  bade  them  return 
to  the  nursery. 

"  How  long  can  I  keep  it  from  them  ?"  he  asked 
bitterly.  "What  an  atmosphere  for  children— 
my  children! — to  grow  up  in!" 

"  If  you  would  do  as  I  wish,  and  send  her  where 
she  belongs — " 

89 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 

"  I  shall  not.  She  is  my  wife.  Moreover,  con- 
cealment would  then  be  impossible." 

They  had  reached  the  third  floor.  He  inserted 
a  key  in  a  door,  hesitated  a  moment,  then  said 
abruptly : "  I  saw  in  a  paper  that  she  had  returned. 
Can  it  be  possible?" 

"  I  saw  her  on  the  Avenue  a  few  moments  ago." 

Was  it  the  doctor's  imagination,  or  did  the 
goaded  man  at  his  side  flash  him  a  glance  of  ap- 
peal? 

They  entered  a  room  whose  doors  and  win- 
dows were  muffled.  The  furniture  was  solid,  too 
solid  to  be  moved  except  by  muscular  arms. 
There  were  no  mirrors  nor  breakable  articles  of 
any  sort. 

On  the  bed  lay  a  woman  with  ragged  hair  and 
sunken  yellow  face,  but  even  in  her  ruin  inde- 
finably elegant.  Her  parted  lips  were  black  and 
blistered  within ;  her  shapely  skinny  hands 
clutched  the  quilt  with  the  tenacious  suggestion 
of  the  eagle — that  long-lived  defiant  bird.  At 
the  bedside  sat  a  vigorous  woman,  the  pallor  of 
fatigue  on  her  face. 

The  creature  on  the  bed  opened  her  eyes. 
They  had  once  been  what  are  vaguely  known  as 
fine  eyes;  now  they  looked  like  blots  of  ink  on 
parchment. 

"Give  me  a  drink,"  she  said  feverishly. 
90 


The    Greatest    Good 

"Water!  water!  water!"  She  panted,  and  her 
tongue  protruded  slightly.  Her  husband  turned 
away,  his  shoulders  twitching.  The  nurse  held  a 
silver  goblet  to  the  woman's  lips.  She  drank 
greedily,  then  scowled  up  at  the  doctor. 

"  You  missed  it,"  she  said.  "  I  should  be  glad, 
for  I  hate  you,  only  you  give  me  more  relief  than 
they.  They  are  afraid.  They  tried  to  fool  me, 
the  idiots!  But  they  didn't  try  it  twice.  I 
bit." 

She  laughed  and  threw  her  arms  above  her 
head.  The  loose  sleeves  of  her  gown  fell  back 
and  disclosed  arms  speckled  as  if  from  an  ex- 
plosion of  gunpowder. 

"Just  an  ordinary  morphine  fiend,"  thought 
the  doctor.  "  And  she  is  the  wife  of  John  Schuy- 
ler!" 

An  hour  after  dinner  he  told  the  husband  and 
nurse  to  go  to  bed.  For  a  while  he  read,  the 
woman  sleeping  profoundly.  The  house  was  ab- 
solutely still,  or  seemed  to  be.  Had  pande- 
monium reigned  he  could  hardly  have  heard  an 
echo  of  it  from  this  isolated  room.  The  window 
was  open,  but  looked  upon  roofs  and  back  yards ; 
no  sound  of  carriage  wheels  rose  to  break  the 
quiet.  Despite  the  stillness,  the  doctor  had  to 
strain  his  ear  to  catch  the  irregular  breathing  of 
the  sick  woman.  He  had  a  singular  feeling,  al- 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 

though  the  most  unimaginative  of  men,  that  this 
third  floor,  containing  only  himself  and  the  wom- 
an, had  been  sliced  from  the  rest  of  the  house  and 
hung  suspended  in  space,  independent  of  natural 
laws.  It  was  after  the  book  had  ceased  to  in- 
terest him  that  the  idea  shaped  itself,  born  of 
another,  as  yet  unacknowledged,  skulking  in  the 
recesses  of  his  brain.  At  length  he  laid  aside  the 
book,  and  going  to  the  bed,  looked  down  upon 
the  woman,  coldly,  reflectively — exactly  as  he 
had  often  watched  the  quivering  of  an  animal — 
dissected  alive  in  the  cause  of  science. 

Studying  this  man's  face,  it  was  impossible  to 
imagine  it  agitated  by  any  passion  except  thirst 
for  knowledge.  The  skin  was  as  white  as  marble ; 
the  profile  was  straight  and  mathematical,  the 
mouth  a  straight  line,  the  chin  as  square  as  that 
of  a  chiselled  Fate.  The  jaw  was  prominent, 
powerful,  relentless.  The  eyes  were  deeply  set 
and  gray  as  polished  steel.  The  large  brow  was 
luminous,  very  full — an  index  to  the  terrible  in- 
tellect of  the  man. 

As  he  looked  down  on  the  woman  his  thin 
nostrils  twitched  once  and  his  lips  compressed 
more  firmly.  Then  he  smiled.  It  was  an  odd, 
almost  demoniacal  smile. 

"A  physician,"  he  said,  half  aloud,  "has  al- 
most as  much  power  as  God.  The  idea  strikes 

92 


The    Greatest    Good 

me  that  we  are  the  personification  of  that  useful 
symbol." 

He  plunged  his  hands  into  his  pockets,  and 
walked  up  and  down  the  long  thickly  carpeted 
room. 

"  These  are  the  facts  in  the  case,"  he  continued. 
"  The  one  man  I  love  and  unequivocally  respect  is 
tied,  hand  and  foot,  to  that  unsexed  dehumanized 
morphine  receptacle  on  the  bed.  She  is  hopeless. 
Every  known  specific  has  failed,  must  fail,  for  she 
loves  the  vice.  He  has  one  of  the  best  brains  of 
this  day  prolific  in  brains ;  a  distressing  capacity 
for  affection,  human  to  the  core.  At  the  age  of 
forty-two,  in  the  maturity  of  his  mental  powers, 
he  carries  with  him  a  constant  sickening  sense  of 
humiliation;  a  proud  man,  he  lives  in  daily  fear 
of  exposure  and  shame.  At  the  age  of  forty-two, 
in  the  maturity  of  his  manhood,  he  meets  the 
woman  who  conquers  his  heart,  his  imagination, 
who  compels  his  faith  by  making  other  women  ab- 
horrent to  him,  who  allures  and  maddens  with 
the  certainty  of  her  power  to  make  good  his  ideal 
of  her.  He  cannot  marry  her ;  that  animal  on  the 
bed  is  capable  of  living  for  twenty  years. 

"So  much  for  him.  A  girl  of  twenty-eight, 
whose  wealth  and  brain  and  beauty,  and  that 
other  something  that  has  not  yet  been  analyzed 
and  labelled,  have  made  her  a  social  star;  who 

93 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 

has  come  to  wonder,  then  to  resent,  then  to  yawn 
at  the  general  vanity  of  life,  is  suddenly  swept 
out  of  her  calm  orbit  by  a  man's  passion;  and, 
with  the  swiftness  of  decision  natural  to  her,  goes 
to  Europe.  She  returns  in  less  than  three  months. 
For  these  two  people  there  is  but  one  sequel. 
The  second  chapter  will  be  written  the  first  time 
they  are  alone.  Then  they  will  go  to  Europe. 
What  will  be  the  rest  of  the  book  ? 

"  First,  there  will  be  an  ugly  and  reverberating 
scandal.  In  the  course  of  a  year  or  two  she  will 
compel  him  to  return  in  the  interest  of  his  career. 
She  will  not  be  able  to  remain ;  so  proud  a  woman 
could  not  stand  the  position.  Again  he  will  go 
with  her.  In  a  word,  my  friend's  career  will  be 
ruined.  So  many  novelists  and  reporters  have 
written  the  remaining  chapters  of  this  sort  of 
story  that  it  is  hardly  worth  while  for  me  to  go 
any  further. 

"  So  much  for  them.  Let  us  consider  the  other 
victims — the  children.  A  morphine-mother  in 
an  asylum,  a  father  in  a  strange  land  with  a 
woman  who  is  not  his  wife,  the  world  cognizant 
of  all  the  facts  of  the  case.  They  grow  up  at  odds 
with  society.  Result,  they  are  morbid,  warped, 
unnormal.  In  trite  old  English,  their  lives  are 
ruined,  as  are  all  lives  that  have  not  had  a  fair 
chance.'* 

94 


The    Greatest    Good 

He  returned  abruptly  to  the  bedside.  He 
laid  his  finger  on  the  woman's  pulse. 

"No  morphine  to-night  and  she  dies.  A 
worthless  wretch  is  sent  where  she  belongs.  Four 
people  are  saved." 

His  breast  swelled.  His  gray  eyes  seemed  lit- 
erally to  send  forth  smoke;  they  suggested  some 
noiseless  deadly  weapon  of  war.  He  exclaimed 
aloud :  "  My  God !  what  a  power  to  lie  in  the  hands 
of  one  man !  I  stand  here  the  arbiter  of  five  des- 
tinies. It  is  for  me  to  say  whether  four  people  shall 
be  happy  or  wretched,  saved  or  ruined.  I  might 
say,  with  Nero,  '  I  am  God ! " '  He  laughed.  ' '  I 
am  famed  for  my  power  to  save  where  others  have 
failed.  I  am  famed  in  the  comic  weeklies  for 
having  ruined  the  business  of  more  undertakers 
than  any  physician  of  my  day.  That  has  been 
my  role,  my  professional  pride.  I  have  never 
felt  so  proud  as  now." 

The  woman,  who  had  been  moving  restlessly 
for  some  time,  twitched  suddenly  and  uncon- 
trollably. She  opened  her  eyes. 

"Give  it  to  me — quick!"  she  demanded.  Her 
voice,  always  querulous,  was  raucous;  her  eyes 
were  wild. 

"No,"  he  said,  deliberately,  "you  will  have  no 
more  morphine;  not  a  drop." 

She  stared  at  him  incredulously,  then  laughed. 
95 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 

"Stop  joking,"  she  said,  roughly.  "Give  it  to 
me — quick — quick!  I  am  very  weak." 

"No,"  he  said. 

Then,  as  he  continued  to  hold  her  eyes,  her 
own  gradually  expanded  with  terror.  She  raised 
herself  on  one  arm. 

"You  mean  that?"  she  asked. 

"Yes." 

He  watched  her  critically.  She  would  be  in- 
teresting. 

"You  are  going  to  cure  me  with  drastic  meas- 
ures, since  others  have  failed?" 

"Possibly." 

Her  face  contracted  with  hatred.  She  had  been 
a  rather  clever  woman,  and  she  believed  that  he 
was  going  to  experiment  with  her.  But  she  had 
also  been  a  strong-willed  woman  and  used  to 
command  since  babyhood. 

"Give  me  that  morphine,"  she  said,  imperious- 
ly. "  If  you  don't  I'll  be  dead  before  morning." 

He  stood  imperturbable.  She  sprang  from  the 
bed  and  flung  herself  upon  him,  strong  with  anger 
and  apprehension. 

"Give  it  to  me!"  she  screamed.  "Give  it  to 
me!"  And  she  strove  to  bite  him. 

He  caught  her  by  the  shoulder  and  held  her  at 
arm's-length.  She  writhed  and  struggled  and 
cursed.  Her  oaths  might  have  been  learned  in 

96 


The    Greatest    Good 

the  gutter.  She  kicked  at  him  and  strove  to 
reach  him  with  her  nails,  clawing  the  air.  She 
looked  like  a  witch  on  a  broomstick. 

11  What  an  exquisite  bride  she  was !"  he  thought. 
"And  what  columns  of  rubbish  have  been  printed 
about  her  and  her  entertainments!" 

The  woman  was  shrieking  and  struggling. 

"Give  it  to  me!  You  brute!  You  fiend!  I 
always  hated  you !  Give  it  to  me !  I  am  dying ! 
I  am  dying !  Help !  Help !"  But  the  walls  were 
padded,  and  she  knew  it. 

He  permitted  her  to  fling  herself  upon  him, 
easily  brushing  aside  her  jumping  fingers  and 
snapping  teeth.  He  knew  that  her  agony  was 
frightful.  Her  body  was  a  net-work  of  hungry 
nerves.  The  diseased  pulp  of  her  brain  had  eject- 
ed every  thought  but  one.  She  squirmed  like  an 
old  autumn  leaf  about  to  fall.  Her  ugly  face 
became  tragic.  The  words  shot  from  her  dry 
contracted  throat : ' '  Give  me  the  morphine !  Give 
me  the  morphine!" 

Suddenly  realizing  the  immutability  of  the  man 
in  whose  power  she  was,  she  sprang  from  him 
and  ran  frantically  about  the  room,  uttering  harsh 
bleatlike  cries.  She  pulled  open  the  drawers 
of  a  chest,  rummaging  among  its  harmless  con- 
tents, gasping,  quivering,  bounding,  as  her  tort- 
ured nerves  commanded.  When  she  had  littered 

97 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 

the  floor  with  the  contents  of  the  chest  she  ran 
about  screaming  hopelessly.  The  doctor  shud- 
dered, but  he  thought  of  the  four  innocent  people 
in  her  power  and  in  his. 

She  fell  in  a  heap  on  the  floor,  biting  the  carpet, 
striking  out  her  arms  aimlessly,  tearing  her  night- 
gown into  strips;  then  lay  quivering,  a  hideous, 
speckled,  uncanny  thing,  who  should  have  been 
embalmed  and  placed  beside  the  Venus  of  Milo. 

She  raised  herself  on  her  hands  and  crawled 
along  the  carpet,  casually  at  first,  as  a  man 
stricken  in  the  desert  may,  half -consciously,  con- 
tinue his  search  for  water.  Then  the  doctor,  in- 
tently watching  her,  saw  an  expression  of  hope 
leap  into  her  bulging  eyes.  She  scrambled  past 
him  towards  the  wash-stand.  Before  he  could 
define  her  purpose,  she  had  leaped  upon  a  goblet 
inadvertently  left  there  and  had  broken  it  on  the 
marble.  He  reached  her  just  in  time  to  save  her 
throat. 

Then  she  looked  up  at  him  pitifully.  "Give 
it  to  me!" 

She  pressed  his  knees  to  her  breast.  The  red 
burned-out  tear-ducts  yawned.  The  tortured 
body  stiffened  and  relaxed. 

"Poor  wretch!"  he  thought.  "But  what  is 
the  physical  agony  of  a  night  to  the  mental  an- 
guish of  a  lifetime?" 

98 


The    Greatest    Good 

"  Once !  once !"  she  gasped ;  "  or  kill  me."  Then, 
as  he  stood  implacable,  "Kill  me!  Kill  me!" 

He  picked  her  up,  put  a  fresh  night-gown  on 
her,  and  laid  her  on  the  bed.  She  remained  as  he 
placed  her,  too  weak  to  move,  her  eyes  staring  at 
the  ceiling  above  the  big  four-posted  bed. 

He  returned  to  his  chair  and  looked  at  his 
watch.  "She  may  live  two  hours,"  he  thought. 
"Possibly  three.  It  is  only  twelve.  There  is 
plenty  of  time." 

The  room  grew  as  still  as  the  mountain-top 
whence  he  had  that  day  returned.  He  attempted 
to  read,  but  could  not.  The  sense  of  supreme 
power  filled  his  brain.  He  was  the  gigantic  factor 
in  the  fates  of  four. 

Then  Circumstance,  the  outwardly  wayward, 
the  ruthlessly  sequential,  played  him  an  ugly 
trick.  His  eyes,  glancing  idly  about  the  room, 
were  arrested  by  a  big  old-fashioned  rocking- 
chair.  There  was  something  familiar  about  it. 
Soon  he  remembered  that  it  resembled  one  in 
which  his  mother  used  to  sit.  She  had  been  an 
invalid,  and  the  most  sinless  and  unworldly  wom- 
an he  had  ever  known.  He  recalled,  with  a  touch 
of  the  old  impatience,  how  she  had  irritated  his 
active,  aspiring,  essentially  modern  mind  with  her 
cast-iron  precepts  of  right  and  wrong.  Her  con- 
science flagellated  her,  and  she  had  striven  to  de- 

99 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 

velop  her  son's  to  the  goodly  proportion  of  her 
own.  As  he  was  naturally  a  truthful  and  up- 
right boy,  he  resented  her  homilies  mightily. 
"Conscience,"  he  once  broke  out  impatiently, 
"  has  made  more  women  bores,  more  men  failures, 
than  any  ten  vices  in  the  rogues'  calendar." 

She  had  looked  in  pale  horror,  and  taken  refuge 
in  an  axiom:  "Conscience  makes  cowards  of  us 
all." 

He  moved  his  head  with  involuntary  pride. 
The  greatest  achievement  of  civilization  was  the 
triumph  of  the  intellect  over  inherited  impres- 
sions. Every  normal  man  was  conscientious  by 
instinct,  however  he  might  outrage  the  sturdy 
little  judge  clinging  tenaciously  to  his  bench  in 
the  victim's  brain.  It  was  only  when  the  brain 
grew  big  with  knowledge  and  the  will  clasped  it 
with  fingers  of  steel  that  the  little  judge  was 
throttled,  then  cast  out. 

Conscience.  What  was  it  like?  The  doctor 
had  forgotten.  He  had  never  committed  a  mur- 
der nor  a  dishonorable  act.  Had  the  impulse  of 
either  been  in  him,  his  cleverness  would  have  put 
it  aside  with  a  smile  of  scorn.  He  had  never 
scrupled  to  thrust  from  his  path  whoever  or 
whatever  stood  in  his  way,  and  had  stridden  on 
without  a  backward  glance.  His  profession  had 
involved  many  experiments  that  would  have 

100 


The    Greatest    Good 

made  quick  havoc  of  even  the  ordinary  man's 
conscience. 

Conscience.  An  awkward  guest  for  an  un- 
suspected murderer;  for  the  groundling  whose 
heredity  had  not  been  conquered  by  brain. 
Fancy  being  pursued  by  the  spectre  of  the  vic- 
tim! 

The  woman  on  the  bed  gave  a  start  and  groan 
that  recalled  him  to  the  case  in  hand.  He  rose 
and  walked  quickly  to  her  side.  Her  eyes  were 
closed,  her  face  was  black  with  congested  blood. 
He  laid  his  finger  on  her  pulse.  It  was  feeble. 

"It  will  not  be  long  now,"  he  thought. 

He  went  toward  his  chair.  He  felt  a  sudden 
distaste  for  it,  a  desire  for  motion.  He  walked 
up  and  down  the  room  rather  more  rapidly  than 
before. 

"If  I  were  an  ordinary  man,"  he  thought,  "I 
suppose  that  tortured  creature  on  the  bed  would 
haunt  me  to  my  death.  Rot!  A  murderer  I 
should  be  called  if  the  facts  were  known,  I  sup- 
pose. Well,  she  is  worse.  Did  I  permit  her  to 
live  she  would  make  the  living  hell  of  four  peo- 
ple." 

The  woman  gave  a  sudden  awful  cry,  the  cry 

of  a  lost  soul  shot  into  the  night  of  eternity.    The 

stillness  had  been  so  absolute,  the  cry  broke  that 

stillness  so  abruptly  and  so  horridly,  that  the 

8  101 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 

doctor,  strong-brained,  strong-nerved  as  he  was, 
gave  a  violent  start,  and  the  sweat  started  from 
his  body. 

"I  am  a  fool,"  he  exclaimed  angrily,  welcom- 
ing the  sound  of  his  voice;  "but  I  wish  to  God  it 
were  day  and  there  were  noises  outside." 

He  strode  hurriedly  up  and  down  the  room, 
casting  furtive  glances  at  the  bed.  The  night 
was  quiet  again,  but  still  that  cry  rang  through  it 
and  lashed  his  brain.  He  recalled  the  theory 
that  sound  never  dies.  The  waves  of  space  had 
yielded  this  to  him. 

"Good  God!"  he  thought.  "Am  I  going  to 
pieces  ?  If  I  let  this  wretch,  this  criminal  die,  I 
save  four  people.  If  I  let  her  live,  I  ruin  their 
lives.  The  life  of  a  man  of  brain  and  pride  and 
heart ;  the  life  of  a  woman  of  beauty  and  intellect 
and  honor;  the  lives  of  two  children  of  unknown 
potentialities,  for  whom  the  world  has  now  a 
warm  heart.  'The  greatest  good  of  the  greatest 
number' — the  principle  that  governs  civil  law. 
Has  not  even  the  worthy  individual  been  sacri- 
ficed to  it  again  and  again?  Does  it  not  hang 
the  criminal  dangerous  to  the  community  ?  And 
is  that  called  murder?  What  am  I  at  this  mo- 
ment but  law  epitomized?  Shall  I  hesitate? 
My  God,  am  I  hesitating?  Conscience — is  it 
that?  A  superfluous  instinct  transmitted  by 

102 


The    Greatest    Good 

my  ancestors  and  coddled  by  a  woman — is  it 
that  which  has  sprung  from  its  grave,  rattling 
its  bones?  'Conscience  makes' — oh,  shame  that 
I  should  succumb  when  so  much  is  at  stake — 
that  I  should  hesitate  when  the  welfare  of  four 
human  beings  trembles  in  the  balance!  'Con- 
science'— that  in  the  moment  of  my  supreme 
power  I  should  falter!" 

He  returned  to  the  woman.  He  reached  his 
finger  toward  her  pulse,  then  hurriedly  with- 
drew it  and  resumed  his  restless  march. 

"This  is  only  a  nightmare,  born  of  the  night 
and  the  horrible  stillness.  To-morrow  in  the 
world  of  men  it  will  be  forgotten,  and  I  shall  re- 
joice. .  .  .  But  there  will  be  recurring  hours  of 
stillness,  of  solitude.  Will  this  night  repeat  it- 
self ?  Will  that  thing  on  the  bed  haunt  me  ?  Will 
that  cry  shriek  in  my  ears?  Oh,  shame  on  my 
selfishness !  What  am  I  thinking  of  ?  To  let  that 
base,  degraded  wretch  exist,  that  I  may  live 
peaceably  with  my  conscience?  To  let  four 
others  go  to  their  ruin,  that  I  may  escape  a  few 
hours  of  torment?  That  I — / — should  come  to 
this!  'The  greatest  good  of  the  greatest  num- 
ber. The  greatest'  .  .  .  ' Conscience  makes  cow- 
ards of  us  all!"' 

To  his  unutterable  self  -  contempt  and  terror, 
he  found  his  will  for  once  powerless  to  control 

103 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 

the  work  of  the  generations  that  had  preceded 
him.  His  iron  jaw  worked  spasmodically,  his 
gray  eyes  looked  frozen.  The  marble  pallor  of 
his  face  was  suffused  with  a  tinge  of  green. 

"I  despise  myself!"  he  exclaimed,  with  fierce 
emphasis.  "I  loathe  myself!  I  will  not  yield! 
'Conscience' — they  shall  be  saved,  and  by  me. 
'The  greatest1 — I  will  maintain  my  intellectual 
supremacy — that,  if  nothing  else.  She  shall  die!" 

He  halted  abruptly.  Perhaps  she  was  already 
dead.  Then  he  could  reach  the  door  in  a  bound 
and  run  down-stairs  and  out  of  the  house.  To 
be  followed  .  .  . 

He  ran  to  the  bed.  The  woman  still  breathed 
faintly,  her  mouth  was  twisted  into  a  sardonic 
and  pertinent  expression.  His  hand  sought  his 
pocket  and  brought  forth  a  case.  He  opened  it 
and  stared  at  the  hypodermic  syringe.  His 
trembling  fingers  closed  about  it  and  moved 
toward  the  woman.  Then,  with  an  effort  so  vio- 
lent he  fancied  he  could  hear  his  tense  muscles 
creak,  he  straightened  himself  and  turned  his 
back  upon  the  bed.  At  the  same  moment  he 
dropped  the  instrument  to  the  floor  and  set  his 
heel  upon  it. 


V 

A  Monarch  of  a  Small   Survey 


A  Monarch  of  a  Small  Survey 


(HE  willows  haunted  the  lake 
more  gloomily,  trailed  their  old 
branches  more  dejectedly,  than 
when  Dr.  Hiram  Webster  had, 
forty  years  before,  bought  the 
ranches  surrounding  them  from 
the  Moreno  grandees.  Gone  were  the  Morenos 
from  all  but  the  archives  of  California,  but  the 
willows  and  Dr.  Hiram  Webster  were  full  of  years 
and  honors.  The  ranchos  were  ranchos  no  longer. 
A  somnolent  city  covered  their  fertile  acres,  catch- 
ing but  a  whiff  at  angels'  intervals  of  the  me- 
tropolis of  nerves  and  pulse  and  feverish  cor- 
puscles across  the  bay. 

Lawns  sloped  to  the  lake.  At  the  head  of  the 
lawns  were  large  imposing  mansions,  the  homes 
of  the  aristocracy  of  the  city,  all  owned  by  Dr. 
Webster,  and  leased  at  high  rental  to  a  favored 

107 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 

few.  To  dwell  on  Webster  Lake  was  to  hold 
proud  and  exclusive  position  in  the  community, 
well  worth  the  attendant  ills.  To  purchase  of 
those  charmed  acres  was  as  little  possible  as  to 
induce  the  Government  to  part  with  a  dwelling- 
site  in  Yosemite  Valley. 

Webster  Hall  was  twenty  years  older  than  the 
tributary  mansions.  The  trees  about  it  were 
large  and  densely  planted.  When  storms  tossed 
the  lake  they  whipped  the  roof  viciously  or  held 
the  wind  in  longer  wails.  There  was  an  air  of 
mystery  about  the  great  rambling  sombre  house ; 
and  yet  no  murder  had  been  done  there,  no  trav- 
eller had  disappeared  behind  the  sighing  trees 
to  be  seen  no  more,  no  tale  of  horror  claimed  it 
as  birthplace.  The  atmosphere  was  created  by 
the  footprints  of  time  on  a  dwelling  old  in  a  new 
land.  The  lawns  were  unkempt,  the  bare  win- 
dows stared  at  the  trees  like  unlidded  eyes.  Chil- 
dren ran  past  it  in  the  night.  The  un welcomed 
of  the  spreading  city  maintained  that  if  nothing 
ever  had  happened  there  something  would;  that 
the  place  spoke  its  manifest  destiny  to  the  least 
creative  mind. 

The  rain  poured  down  one  Sunday  morning, 
splashing  heavily  on  the  tin  of  the  oft-mended 
roof,  hurling  itself  noisily  through  the  trees. 
The  doctor  sat  in  his  revolving-chair  before  the 

1 08 


A    Monarch    of   a    Small    Survey 

desk  in  his  study.  His  yellow  face  was  puck- 
ered; even  the  wrinkles  seemed  to  wrinkle  as  he 
whirled  about  every  few  moments  and  scowled 
through  the  trees  at  the  flood  racing  down  the 
lawn  to  the  lake.  His  thin  mouth  was  a  trifle 
relaxed,  his  clothes  hung  loose  upon  him ;  but  the 
eyes,  black  and  sharp  as  a  ferret's,  glittered  un- 
dimmed. 

He  lifted  a  large  bell  that  stood  on  the  desk  and 
rang  it  loudly.  A  maid-servant  appeared. 

uGo  and  look  at  the  barometer,"  he  roared. 
"  See  if  this  damned  rain  shows  any  sign  of  letting 
up." 

The  servant  retired,  reappeared,  and  an- 
nounced that  the  barometer  was  uncompro- 
mising. 

"Well,  see  that  the  table  is  set  for  twenty, 
nevertheless;  do  you  hear?  If  they  don't  come 
I'll  raise  their  rents.  Send  Miss  Webster  here." 

His  sister  entered  in  a  few  moments.  She  was 
nearly  his  age,  but  her  faded  face  showed  wrin- 
kles only  on  the  brow  and  about  the  eyes.  It 
wore  a  look  of  haunting  youth ;  the  expression  of 
a  woman  who  has  grown  old  unwillingly,  and 
still  hopes,  against  reason,  that  youth  is  not  a 
matter  of  a  few  years  at  the  wrong  end  of  life. 
Her  hair  was  fashionably  arranged,  but  she  was 
attired  in  a  worn  black  silk,  her  only  ornament 

109 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 

a  hair  brooch.  Her  hands  were  small  and  well 
kept,  although  the  skin  hung  loose  upon  them, 
spotted  with  the  moth-patches  of  age.  Her  figure 
was  erect,  but  stout. 

"What  is  it,  brother?"  she  asked  softly,  ad- 
dressing the  back  of  the  autocrat's  head. 

He  wheeled  about  sharply. 

"Why  do  you  always  come  in  like  a  cat?  Do 
you  think  those  people  will  come  to-day?  It's 
raining  cats  and  dogs." 

"Certainly;  they  always  come,  and  they  have 
their  carriages— 

"That's  just  it.  They're  getting  so  damned 
high-toned  that  they'll  soon  feel  independent  of 
me.  But  I'll  turn  them  out,  bag  and  baggage." 

"They  treat  you  exactly  as  they  have  treated 
you  for  thirty  years  and  more,  brother." 

"Do  you  think  so?  Do  you  think  they'll 
come  to-day?" 

"  I  am  sure  they  will,  Hiram." 

He  looked  her  up  and  down,  then  said,  with  a 
startling  note  of  tenderness  in  his  ill-used  voice: 

"  You  ought  to  have  a  new  frock,  Marian.  That 
is  looking  old." 

Had  not  Dr.  Webster  been  wholly  deficient 
in  humor  he  would  have  smiled  at  his  sister's 
expression  of  terrified  surprise.  She  ran  forward 
and  laid  her  hand  on  his  shoulder. 

no 


A    Monarch    of   a    Small    Survey 

"  Hiram,"  she  said,  "  are  you— you  do  not  look 
well  to-day." 

"Oh,  I  am  well  enough,"  he  replied,  shaking 
her  off.  "But  I  have  noticed  of  late  that  you 
and  Abigail  are  looking  shabby,  and  I  don't 
choose  that  all  these  fine  folks  shall  criticise 
you."  He  opened  his  desk  and  counted  out 
four  double-eagles. 

"  Will  this  be  enough  ?  I  don't  know  anything 
about  women's  things." 

Miss  Webster  was  thankful  to  get  any  money 
without  days  of  expostulation,  and  assured  him 
that  it  was  sufficient.  She  left  the  room  at  once 
and  sought  her  companion,  Miss  Williams. 

The  companion  was  sitting  on  the  edge  of  the 
bed  in  her  small  ascetic  chamber,  staring,  like 
Dr.  Webster  down-stairs,  through  the  trees  at 
the  rain.  So  she  had  sat  the  night  of  her  arrival 
at  Webster  Hall,  then  a  girl  of  eighteen  and 
dreams.  So  she  had  sat  many  times,  feeling 
youth  slip  by  her,  lifting  her  bitter  protest  against 
the  monotony  and  starvation  of  her  existence, 
yet  too  timid  and  ignorant  to  start  forth  in  search 
of  life.  It  was  her  birthday,  this  gloomy  Sun- 
day. She  was  forty -two.  She  was  revolving  a 
problem — a  problem  she  had  revolved  many 
times  before.  For  what  had  she  stayed?  Had 
there  been  an  unadmitted  hope  that  these  old 

in 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 

people  must  soon  die  and.  leave  her  with  an  inde- 
pendence with  which  she  could  travel  and  live? 
She  loved  Miss  Webster,  and  she  had  gladly  re- 
sponded to  her  invitation  to  leave  the  New  Eng- 
land village,  where  she  was  dependent  on  the 
charity  of  relatives,  and  make  her  home  in  the 
new  country.  Miss  Webster  needed  a  companion 
and  housekeeper;  there  would  be  no  salary,  but 
a  comfortable  home  and  clothes  that  she  could 
feel  she  had  earned.  She  had  come  full  of  youth 
and  spirit  and  hope.  Youth  and  hope  and  spirit 
had  dribbled  away,  but  she  had  stayed,  and 
stayed.  To-day  she  wished  she  had  married 
any  clod  in  her  native  village  that  had  been 
good  enough  to  address  her.  Never  for  one  mo- 
ment had  she  known  the  joys  of  freedom,  of  love, 
of  individuality. 

Miss  Webster  entered  abruptly. 

"Abby,"  she  exclaimed,  ''Hiram  is  ill."  And 
she  related  the  tale  of  his  unbending. 

Miss  Williams  listened  indifferently.  She  was 
very  tired  of  Hiram.  She  accepted  with  a  per- 
functory expression  of  gratitude  the  gold  piece 
allotted  to  her.  "You  are  forty-two,  you  are 
old,  you  are  nobody,"  was  knelling  through  her 
brain. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  asked  Miss  Webster, 
sympathetically ;  "  have  you  been  crying  ?  Don't 

112 


A   Monarch    of  a    Small    Survey 

you  feel  well?  You'd  better  dress,  dear;  they'll 
be  here  soon." 

She  sat  down  suddenly  on  the  bed  and  flung 
her  arms  about  her  companion,  the  tears  starting 
to  her  kindly  eyes. 

"  We  are  old  women,"  she  said.  "  Life  has  not 
meant  much  to  us.  You  are  younger  in  years, 
but  you  have  lived  in  this  dismal  old  house  so 
long  that  you  have  given  it  and  us  your  youth. 
You  have  hardly  as  much  of  it  now  as  we  have. 
Poor  girl!" 

The  two  women  fondled  each  other,  Abby  ap- 
preciating that,  although  Miss  Webster  might 
not  be  a  woman  of  depths,  she  too  had  her 
regrets,  her  yearnings  for  what  had  never 
been. 

"What  a  strange  order  of  things  it  is,"  con- 
tinued the  older  woman,  "that  we  should  have 
only  one  chance  for  youth  in  this  life !  It  comes 
to  so  many  of  us  when  circumstances  will  not 
permit  us  to  enjoy  it.  I  drudged — drudged — 
drudged,  when  I  was  young.  Now  that  I  have 
leisure  and — and  opportunity  to  meet  people,  at 
least,  every  chance  of  happiness  has  gone  from 
me.  But  you  are  comparatively  young  yet, 
really;  hope  on.  The  grave  will  have  me  in  a 
few  years,  but  you  can  live  and  be  well  for  thirty 
yet.  Ah!  if  I  had  those  thirty  years!" 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 

"  I  would  give  them  to  you  gladly  for  one  year 
of  happiness — of  youth." 

Miss  Webster  rose  and  dried  her  eyes.  *  *  Well, ' ' 
she  said,  philosophically,  "  regrets  won't  bring 
things.  We've  people  to  entertain  to-day,  so 
we  must  get  out  of  the  dumps.  Put  on  your  best 
frock,  like  a  good  child,  and  come  down." 

She  left  the  room.  Miss  Williams  rose  hur- 
riedly, unhooked  a  brown  silk  frock  from  the 
cupboard,  and  put  it  on.  Her  hair  was  always 
smooth;  the  white  line  of  disunion  curved  from 
brow  to  the  braids  pinned  primly  above  the  nape 
of  the  neck.  As  she  looked  into  the  glass  to-day 
she  experienced  a  sudden  desire  to  fringe  her 
hair,  to  put  red  on  her  cheeks;  longing  to  see  if 
any  semblance  of  her  youthful  prettiness  could 
be  coaxed  back.  She  lifted  a  pair  of  scissors, 
but  threw  them  hastily  down.  She  had  not  the 
courage  to  face  the  smiles  and  questions  that 
would  greet  the  daring  innovation,  the  scathing 
ridicule  of  old  man  Webster. 

She  stared  at  her  reflection  in  the  little  mirror, 
trying  to  imagine  her  forehead  covered  with  a 
soft  fringe.  Nothing  could  conceal  the  lines 
about  the  eyes  and  mouth,  but  the  aging  brow 
could  be  hidden  from  critical  gaze,  the  face  re- 
deemed from  its  unyouthful  length.  Her  cheeks 
were  thin  and  colorless,  but  the  skin  was  fine  and 

114 


A    Monarch    of   a    Small    Survey 

smooth.  The  eyes,  which  had  once  been  a  rich 
dark  blue,  were  many  shades  lighter  now,  but 
the  dulness  of  age  had  not  possessed  them  yet. 
Her  set  mouth  had  lost  its  curves  and  red,  but 
the  teeth  were  good.  The  head  was  finely  shaped 
and  well  placed  on  the  low  old-fashioned  shoul- 
ders. There  were  no  contours  now  under  the 
stiff  frock.  Had  her  estate  been  high  she  would 
have  been,  at  the  age  of  forty-two,  a  youthful 
and  pretty  woman.  As  it  was,  she  was  merely 
an  old  maid  with  a  patrician  profile. 

She  went  down-stairs  to  occupy  her  chair  in 
the  parlor,  her  seat  at  the  table,  to  be  overlooked 
by  the  fine  people  who  took  no  interest  whatever 
in  the  "  Websters'  companion."  She  hated  them 
all.  She  had  watched  them  too  grow  old  with  a 
profound  satisfaction  for  which  she  reproached 
herself.  Even  wealth  had  not  done  for  them 
what  she  felt  it  could  have  done  for  her. 

The  first  carriage  drove  up  as  she  reached  the 
foot  of  the  stair.  The  front  door  had  been  opened 
by  the  maid  as  it  approached,  and  the  rain  beat 
in.  There  was  no  porte-cochere;  the  guests  were 
obliged  to  run  up  the  steps  to  avoid  a  drench- 
ing. The  fashionable  Mrs.  Holt  draggled  her 
skirts,  and  under  her  breath  anathematized  her 
host. 

"It  will  be  the  happiest  day  of  my  life  when 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 

this  sort  of  thing  is  over, ' '  she  muttered .  ' '  Thank 
heaven,  he  can't  live  much  longer!" 

"Hush!"  whispered  her  prudent  husband;  Miss 
Webster  had  appeared. 

The  two  women  kissed  each  other  affectionate- 
ly. Everybody  liked  Miss  Webster.  Mrs.  Holt, 
an  imposing  person,  with  the  rigid  backbone  of 
the  newly  rich,  held  her  hostess's  hand  in  both 
her  own  as  she  assured  her  that  the  storm  had 
not  visited  California  which  could  keep  her  from 
one  of  dear  Dr.  Webster's  delightful  dinners. 
As  she  went  up-stairs  to  lay  aside  her  wrappings 
she  relieved  her  feelings  by  a  facial  pucker  di- 
rected at  a  painting,  on  a  matting  panel,  of  the 
doctor  in  the  robes  of  Japan. 

The  other  guests  arrived,  and  after  making  the 
pilgrimage  up-stairs,  seated  themselves  in  the 
front  parlor  to  slide  up  and  down  the  horse-hair 
furniture  and  await  the  entrance  of  the  doctor. 
The  room  was  funereal.  The  storm-ridden  trees 
lashed  the  bare  dripping  windows.  The  carpet 
was  threadbare.  White  crocheted  tidies  lent 
their  emphasis  to  the  hideous  black  furniture. 
A  table,  with  marble  top,  like  a  graveyard  slab, 
stood  in  the  middle  of  the  room.  On  it  was  a 
bunch  of  wax  flowers  in  a  glass  case.  On  the 
white  plastered  walls  hung  family  photographs 
in  narrow  gilt  frames.  In  a  conspicuous  place 

116 


A    Monarch    of    a    Small    Survey 

was  the  doctor's  diploma.  In  another,  Miss 
Webster's  first  sampler.  "  The  first  piano  ever 
brought  to  California"  stood  in  a  corner,  looking 
like  the  ghost  of  an  ancient  spinet.  Miss  Williams 
half  expected  to  find  it  some  day  standing  on 
three  legs,  resting  the  other, 

Miss  Webster  sat  on  a  high-backed  chair  by  the 
table,  nervously  striving  to  entertain  her  fash- 
ionable guests.  The  women  huddled  together  to 
keep  warm,  regardless  of  their  expensive  rai- 
ment. The  men  stood  in  a  corner,  reviling  the 
mid-day  dinner  in  prospect.  Miss  Williams  drift- 
ed into  a  chair  and  gazed  dully  on  the  accustomed 
scene.  She  had  looked  on  it  weekly,  with  barely 
an  intermission,  for  a  quarter  of  a  century.  With 
a  sensation  of  relief,  so  sharp  that  it  seemed  to 
underscore  the  hateful  monotony  of  it  all,  she 
observed  that  there  was  a  young  person  in  the 
company.  As  a  rule,  neither  threats  nor  bribes 
could  bring  the  young  to  Webster  Hall.  Then 
she  felt  glad  that  the  young  person  was  a  man. 
She  was  in  no  mood  to  look  on  the  blooming 
hopeful  face  of  a  girl. 

He  was  a  fine  young  fellow,  with  the  supple 
lean  figure  of  the  college  athlete,  and  a  frank 
attractive  face.  He  stood  with  his  hands 
plunged  into  his  pockets,  gazing  on  the  scene 
with  an  expression  of  ludicrous  dismay.  In  a 
9  117 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 

moment  he  caught  the  companion's  eye.  She 
smiled  involuntarily,  all  that  was  still  young  in 
her  leaping  to  meet  that  glad  symbol  of  youth. 
He  walked  quickly  over  to  her. 

"I  say,"  he  exclaimed,  apologetically,  "I 
haven't  been  introduced,  but  do  let  ceremony 
go,  and  talk  to  me.  I  never  saw  so  many  old 
fogies  in  my  life,  and  this  room  is  like  a 
morgue.  I  almost  feel  afraid  to  look  behind 
me." 

She  gave  him  a  grateful  heart-beat  for  all  that 
his  words  implied. 

"Sit  down,"  she  said,  with  a  vivacity  she  had 
not  known  was  left  in  her  sluggish  currents. 
' '  How — did — you — come — here  ?' ' 

"Why,  you  see,  I'm  visiting  the  Holts — Jack 
Holt  was  my  chum  at  college — and  when  they 
asked  me  if  I  wanted  to  see  the  oldest  house  in 
the  city,  and  meet  the  most  famous  m'an  *  on  this 
side  of  the  bay/  why,  of  course,  I  said  I'd  come. 
But,  gods!  I  didn't  know  it  would  be  like  this, 
although  Jack  said  the  tail  of  a  wild  mustang 
couldn't  get  him  through  the  front  door.  Being 
on  my  first  visit  to  the  widely  renowned  Cali- 
fornia, I  thought  it  my  duty  to  see  all  the  sights. 
Where  did  you  come  from?" 

"Oh,  I  live  here.  I've  lived  here  for  twenty- 
four  years." 

118 


A    Monarch    of  a    Small    Survey 

'Great  Scott!"    His  eyes  bulged.    "You've 
lived  in  this  house  for  twenty-four  years?" 

"Twenty-four  years." 

"And  you're  not  dead  yet — I  beg  pardon," 
hastily.  "  I  am  afraid  you  think  me  very  rude." 

"No,  I  do  not.  I  am  glad  you  realize  how 
dreadful  it  is.  Nobody  else  ever  does.  These 
people  have  known  me  for  most  of  that  time,  and 
it  has  never  occurred  to  them  to  wonder  how  I 
stood  it.  Do  you  know  that  you  are  the  first 
young  person  I  have  spoken  with  for  years  and 
years?" 

"You  don't  mean  it?"  His  boyish  soul  was 
filled  with  pity.  "Well,  I  should  think  you'd 
bolt  and  run." 

"What  use  ?  I've  stayed  too  long.  I'm  an  old 
woman  now,  and  may  as  well  stay  till  the  end." 

The  youth  was  beginning  to  feel  embarrassed, 
bat  was  spared  the  effort  of  making  a  suitable 
reply  by  the  entrance  of  Dr.  Webster.  The  old 
man  was  clad  in  shining  broadcloth,  whose  maker 
was  probably  dead  these  many  years.  He  leaned 
on  a  cane  heavily  mounted  with  gold. 

"Howdy,  howdy,  howdy?"  he  cried,  in  his 
rough  but  hospitable  tones.  "Glad  to  see  you. 
Didn't  think  you'd  come.  Yes,  I  did,  though," 
with  a  chuckle.  "Well,  come  down  to  dinner, 
I'm  hungry." 

119 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 

He  turned  his  back  without  individual  greeting, 
and  led  the  way  along  the  hall,  then  down  a  nar- 
row creaking  stairway  to  the  basement  dining- 
room,  an  apartment  as  stark  and  cheerless  as  the 
parlor,  albeit  the  silver  on  the  table  was  very  old 
and  heavy,  the  linen  unsurpassed. 

The  guests  seated  themselves  as  they  listed, 
the  youngster  almost  clinging  to  Miss  Williams. 
The  doctor  hurriedly  ladled  the  soup,  announcing 
that  he  had  a  notion  to  let  them  help  themselves, 
he  was  so  hungry.  When  he  had  given  them  this 
brief  attention  he  supplied  his  own  needs  with 
the  ladle  direct  from  the  tureen. 

"Old  beast!"  muttered  Mrs.  Holt.  "It's  dis- 
gusting to  be  so  rich  that  you  can  do  as  you 
please." 

But  for  this  remark,  delivered  as  the  ladle  fell 
with  a  clatter  on  the  empty  soup-plate,  the  first 
course  was  disposed  of  amidst  profound  silence. 
No  one  dared  to  talk  except  as  the  master  led,  and 
the  master  was  taking  the  edge  off  his  appetite. 

The  soup  was  removed  and  a  lavish  dinner  laid 
on  the  table.  Dr.  Webster  sacrificed  his  rigid 
economic  tenets  at  the  kitchen  door,  but  there 
was  no  rejoicing  in  the  hearts  of  the  guests.  They 
groaned  in  spirit  as  they  contemplated  the 
amount  they  should  be  forced  to  consume  at  one 
of  the  clock. 

120 


A    Monarch    of   a    Small    Survey 

The  doctor  carved  the  turkeys  into  generous 
portions,  ate  his,  then  began  to  talk. 

"Cleveland  will  be  re-elected,"  he  announced 
dictatorially.  "Do  you  hear?  Harrison  has  no 
show  at  all.  What  say?"  His  shaggy  brows 
rushed  together.  He  had  detected  a  faint  mur- 
mur of  dissent.  "  Did  you  say  he  wouldn't,  John 
Holt?" 

"  No,  no,"  disclaimed  Mr.  Holt,  who  was  a  scar- 
let Republican.  "Cleveland  will  be  re-elected 
beyond  a  doubt." 

"Well,  if  I  hear  of  any  of  you  voting  for  Harri- 
son! I  suppose  you  think  I  can't  find  out  what 
ticket  you  vote!  But  I'll  find  out,  sirs.  Mark 
my  words,  Holt,  if  you  vote  the  Republican 
ticket—" 

He  stopped  ominously  and  brought  his  teeth 
together  with  a  vicious  click.  Holt  raised  his 
wine-glass  nervously.  The  doctor  held  his  note 
to  a  considerable  amount. 

"The  Republican  party  is  dead — dead  as  a 
door-nail,"  broke  in  an  unctuous  voice.  A  stout 
man  with  a  shrewd  time-serving  face  leaned  for- 
ward. "Don't  let  it  give  you  a  thought,  doc- 
tor. What  do  you  think  of  the  prospects  for 
wheat?" 

"Never  better,  never  better.  They  say  the 
Northern  crops  will  fail,  but  it's  a  lie.  They 

121 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 

can't  fail.  You  needn't  worry,  Meeker.  Don't 
pull  that  long  face,  sir;  I  don't  like  it." 

"The  reports  are  not  very  encouraging,"  be- 
gan a  man  of  bile  and  nerves  and  melancholy 
mien.  "  And  this  early  rain— 

"Don't  contradict  me,  sir,"  cried  Webster. 
"I  say  they  can't  fail.  They  haven't  failed  for 
eight  years.  Why  should  they  fail  now?" 

"No  reason  at  all,  sir — no  reason  at  all,"  re- 
plied the  victim,  hurriedly.  "It  does  me  good 
to  hear  your  prognostications." 

"I  hear  there  is  a  slight  rise  in  Con.  Vir- 
ginia," interposed  Mrs.  Holt,  who  had  cultivated 
tact. 

"Nonsense!"  almost  shouted  the  tyrant.  The 
heavy  silver  fork  of  the  Morenos  fell  to  his  plate 
with  a  crash.  "The  mine's  as  rotten  as  an  old 
lung.  There  isn't  a  handful  of  decent  ore  left  in 
her.  No  more  clodhoppers  '11  get  rich  out  of  that 
mine.  You  haven't  been  investing,  have  you?" 
His  ferret  eyes  darted  from  one  face  to  another. 
"If  you  have,  don't  you  ever  darken  my  doors 
again!  I  don't  approve  of  stock-gambling,  and 
you  know  it." 

The  guests,  one  and  all,  assured  him  that  not 
one  of  their  hard-earned  dollars  had  gone  to  the 
stock-market. 

"Great  Scott!"  murmured  the  youth  to  Miss 

122 


A    Monarch    of  a    Small    Survey 

Williams;  "is  this  the  way  he  always  goes  on? 
Have  these  people  no  self-respect?" 

"They're  used  to  him.  This  sort  of  thing  has 
gone  on  ever  since  I  came  here.  You  see  he  has 
made  this  lake  the  most  aristocratic  part  of  the 
city,  so  that  it  gives  one  great  social  importance 
to  live  here ;  and  as  he  won't  sell  the  houses,  they 
have  to  let  him  trample  on  their  necks,  and  he 
loves  to  do  that  better  than  he  loves  his  money. 
But  that  is  not  the  only  reason.  They  hope  he 
will  leave  them  those  houses  when  he  dies.  They 
certainly  deserve  that  he  should.  For  years, 
before  they  owned  carriages,  they  would  tramp 
through  wind  and  rain  every  Sunday  in  winter  to 
play  billiards  with  him,  to  say  nothing  of  the  hot 
days  of  summer.  They  have  eaten  this  mid-day 
dinner  that  they  hate  time  out  of  mind.  They 
have  listened  to  his  interminable  yarns,  oft  re- 
peated, about  early  California.  In  all  these  years 
they  have  never  contradicted  him,  not  once. 
They  thought  he'd  die  long  ago,  and  now 
they're  under  his  heel,  and  they  couldn't  get 
up  and  assert  themselves  if  they  tried.  All 
they  can  do  is  to  abuse  him  behind  his 
back." 

"It  all  seems  disgusting  to  me." 

His  independent  spirit  was  very  attractive  to 
the  companion. 

123 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 

"I'd  like  to  bluff  him  at  his  own  game,  the  old 
slave-driver,"  he  continued. 

"Oh  don't!  don't!"  she  quavered. 

She  was,  in  truth,  anxiously  awaiting  the  mo- 
ment when  Dr.  Webster  should  see  fit  to  give 
his  attention  to  the  stranger. 

He  laughed  outright. 

"  Why,  what  makes  you  so  afraid  of  him  ?  He 
doesn't  beat  you,  does  he?" 

"  It  isn't  that.  It's  the  personality  of  the  man, 
added  to  force  of  habit." 

"Well,  Mr.  Strowbridge,"  cried  Dr.  Webster, 
suddenly  addressing  the  youth,  "what  are  you 
doing  for  this  world  ?  I  hear  you  are  just  out  of 
Harvard  University.  University  men  never 
amount  to  a  row  of  pins." 

Strowbridge  flushed  and  bit  his  lip,  but  con- 
trolled himself. 

"Never  amount  to  a  row  of  pins,"  roared  the 
doctor,  irritated  by  the  haughty  lifting  of  the 
young  man's  head.  "Don't  even  get  any  more 
book-learning  now,  I  understand.  Nothing  but 
football  and  boat-racing.  Think  that  would 
make  a  fortune  in  a  new  country?  Got  any 
money  of  your  own?" 

"  My  father,  since  you  ask  me,  is  a  rich  man — 
as  well  as  a  gentleman,"  said  Strowbridge,  with 
the  expression  of  half-frightened  anger  of  the 

124 


A    Monarch    of   a    Small    Survey 

righteously  indignant,  who  knows  that  he  has  not 
the  advantages  of  cool  wit  and  scathing  repartee, 
and,  in  consequence,  may  lose  his  head.  "  He  in- 
herited his  money,  and  was  not  forced  to  go  to  a 
new  country  andbecome  a  savage,"  he  blurted  out. 

Mr.  Holt  extended  himself  beneath  the  table, 
and  trod  with  terrified  significance  on  Strow- 
bridge's  foot.  Miss  Williams  fluttered  with  ter- 
ror and  admiration.  The  other  guests  gazed  at 
the  youth  in  dismay.  For  the  first  time  in  the 
history  of  Webster  Hall  the  grizzly  had  been 
bearded  in  his  lair. 

1 '  Sir !  sir !' '  spluttered  Webster.  Then  he  broke 
into  a  roar.  * '  Who  asked  this  cub  here,  anyway  ? 
Who  said  you  could  write  and  ask  permission  to 
bring  your  friends  to  my  house  ?  How  dare  you 
—how  dare  you — how  dare  you,  sir,  speak  to  me 
like  that  ?  Do  you  know,  sir— 

"Oh,  I  know  all  about  you,"  exclaimed  Strow- 
bridge,  whose  young  blood  was  now  uncontrolla- 
ble. "You  are  an  ill-bred,  purse-proud  old  ty- 
rant, who  wouldn't  be  allowed  to  sit  at  a  table  in 
California  if  it  wasn't  for  your  vulgar  money." 
He  pushed  back  his  chair  and  stood  up.  "  I  wish 
you  good-day,  sir.  I  pity  you.  You  haven't  a 
friend  on  earth.  I  also  apologize  for  my  rude- 
ness. My  only  excuse  is  that  I  couldn't  help  it." 

And  he  went  hurriedly  from  the  room. 
I25 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 

To  Miss  Williams  the  feeble  light  went  with 
him.  The  appalled  guests  attacked  their  food 
with  feverish  energy.  Dr.  Webster  stared  stu- 
pidly at  the  door ;  then  his  food  gave  out  the  sound 
of  ore  in  a  crusher.  He  did  not  speak  for  some 
time.  When  he  did  he  ignored  the  subject  of 
young  Strowbridge.  His  manner  was  appreci- 
ably milder — somewhat  dazed — although  he  by 
no  means  gave  evidence  of  being  humbled  to  the 
dust.  The  long  dinner  dragged  to  its  close.  The 
women  went  up  to  the  parlor  to  sip  tea  with  Miss 
Webster  and  slide  up  and  down  the  furniture. 
The  men  followed  the  doctor  to  the  billiard-room. 
They  were  stupid  and  sleepy,  but  for  three  hours 
they  were  forced  alternately  to  play  and  listen 
to  the  old  man's  anecdotes  of  the  days  when  he 
fought  and  felled  the  grizzly.  He  seemed  par- 
ticularly anxious  to  impress  his  hearers  with  his 
ancient  invincibility. 

That  night,  in  the  big  four-posted  mahogany 
bed  in  which  he  had  been  born,  surrounded  by 
the  massive  ugly  furniture  of  his  old  New  Eng- 
land home,  Dr.  Webster  quietly  passed  away. 


II 

Not  only  the  lakeside  people,  but  all  of  the  city 
with  claims  to  social  importance  attended  the 

126 


A    Monarch    of   a    Small    Survey 

funeral.  Never  had  there  been  such  an  impos- 
ing array  of  long  faces  and  dark  attire.  Miss 
Webster  being  prostrated,  the  companion  did  the 
honors.  The  dwellers  on  the  lake  occupied  the 
post  of  honor  at  the  head  of  the  room,  just  be- 
yond the  expensive  casket.  Their  faces  were 
studies.  After  Miss  Williams  had  exchanged  a 
word  with  each,  Strowbridge  stepped  forward  and 
bent  to  her  ear. 

"Oh,  I  say,"  he  whispered,  eagerly,  "I  have 
to  tell  some  member  of  this  family  how  sorry  I 
am  for  losing  my  temper  and  my  manners  the 
other  day.  It  was  awfully  fresh  of  me.  Poor 
old  boy!  Do  say  that  you  forgive  me." 

A  smile  crept  between  her  red  lids. 

"  He  had  a  good  heart,"  she  said.  "  He  would 
have  forgiven  you."  And  then  the  long  and 
impressive  ceremony  began. 

All  the  great  company  followed  the  dead  au- 
tocrat to  the  cemetery,  regardless  of  the  damag- 
ing skies.  Miss  Williams,  as  chief  mourner,  rode 
in  a  hack,  alone,  directly  behind  the  hearse. 
During  the  dreary  ride  she  labored  conscientious- 
ly to  stifle  an  unseemly  hope.  In  the  other 
carriages  conversation  flowed  freely,  and  no  at- 
tempt was  made  to  discourage  expectations. 

Two  evenings  later,  as  the  crowd  of  weary  busi- 
ness men  boarded  the  train  that  met  the  boat 

127 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 

from  the  great  city  across  the  bay,  it  was  greeted 
as  usual  by  the  cry  of  the  local  newsboys.  This 
afternoon  the  youngsters  had  a  rare  bait,  and 
they  offered  it  at  the  top  of  their  shrill  worn 
voices : 

"Will  of  Dr.  Hiram  Webster!  Full  account  of 
Dr.  Hiram  Webster's  lastwillundtestermint." 

A  moment  later  the  long  rows  of  seats  looked 
as  if  buried  beneath  an  electrified  avalanche  of 
newspapers.  At  the  end  of  five  minutes  the  pa- 
pers were  fluttering  on  the  floor  amid  the  peanut- 
shells  and  orange-skins  of  the  earlier  travellers. 
There  was  an  impressive  silence,  then  an  ani- 
mated, terse,  and  shockingly  expressive  con- 
versation. Only  a  dozen  or  more  sat  with  drawn 
faces  and  white  lips.  They  were  the  dwellers 
by  the  lake.  Hiram  Webster  had  left  every  cent 
of  his  large  fortune  to  his  sister. 

For  two  weeks  Webster  Lake  did  not  call  on 
the  heiress.  It  was  too  sore.  At  the  end  of  that 
period  philosophy  and  decency  came  to  the  rescue. 
Moreover,  cupidity:  Miss  Webster  too  must  make 
a  will,  and  before  long. 

They  called.  Miss  Webster  received  them  ami- 
ably. Her  eyes  were  red,  but  the  visitors  ob- 
served that  her  mourning  was  very  rich ;  they  had 
never  seen  richer.  They  also  remarked  that  she 
held  her  gray  old  head  with  a  loftiness  that  she 

128 


A    Monarch    of   a    Small    Survey 

must  have  acquired  in  the  past  two  weeks;  no 
one  of  them  had  ever  seen  it  before.  She  did  not 
exactly  patronize  them ;  but  that  she  appreciated 
her  four  millions  there  could  be  no  doubt. 

Strowbridge  glanced  about  in  search  of  Miss 
Williams.  She  was  not  in  the  room.  He  saun- 
tered out  to  the  garden  and  saw  her  coming  from 
the  dairy.  She  wore  a  black  alpaca  frock  and  a 
dark  apron.  Her  face  was  weary  and  sad. 

"Could  any  one  look  more  hopeless!"  he 
thought.  "The  selfish  old  curmudgeon,  not  to 
leave  her  independent!  How  her  face  can  light 
up!  She  looks  almost  young." 

For  she  had  seen  him  and  hastened  down  the 
path.  As  he  asked  after  her  health  and  said  that 
he  had  been  looking  for  her,  she  smiled  and  flush- 
ed a  little.  They  sat  down  on  the  steps  and 
chatted  until  approaching  voices  warned  them 
that  both  pleasure  and  duty  were  over.  She 
found  herself  admitting  that  she  had  been  bitterly 
disappointed  to  learn  that  she  was  still  a  de- 
pendant, still  chained  to  the  gloomy  mansion  by 
the  lake.  Yes ;  she  should  like  to  travel,  to  go  to 
places  she  had  read  of  in  the  doctor's  library— 
V>  live.  She  flushed  with  shame  later  when  she 
reflected  on  her  confidences — she  who  was  so 
proudly  reticent.  And  to  a  stranger!  But  she 
had  never  met  any  one  so  sympathetic. 

129 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 

Many  were  the  comments  of  the  visitors  as  they 
drove  away. 

"Upon  my  word!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Holt;  "I 
do  believe  Marian  Webster  will  become  stuck-up 
in  her  old  age." 

"Four  millions  are  a  good  excuse,"  said  Mrs. 
Meeker,  with  a  sigh. 

"That  dress  did  not  cost  a  cent  under  three 
hundred  dollars,"  remarked  a  third,  with  en- 
ergy. "And  it  was  tried  on  four  times,  if 
it  was  once.  She  is  evidently  open  to  consola- 
tion." 

But  Miss  Webster  had  by  no  means  ceased  to 
furnish  material  for  comment.  A  month  later 
Mrs.  Meeker  burst  in  on  Mrs.  Holt.  "What  do 
you  think?"  she  cried.  "Old  Miss  Webster  is 
refurnishing  the  house  from  top  to  bottom.  I 
ran  in  just  now,  and  found  everything  topsy- 
turvy. Thompson's  men  are  there  frescoing — 
frescoing  !  All  the  carpets  have  been  taken  up 
and  are  not  in  sight.  Miss  Webster  informed  me 
that  she  would  show  us  what  she  could  do,  if  she 
was  seventy-odd,  but  that  she  didn't  want  any 
one  to  call  until  everything  was  finished.  Think 
of  that  house  being  modernized — that  old  whited 
sepulchre!" 

Mrs.  Holt  had  dropped  the  carriage-blanket 
she  was  embroidering  for  her  daughter's  baby. 

130 


A    Monarch    of   a    Small    Survey 

"Are  you  dreaming?"  she  gasped.  "Hiram  will 
haunt  the  place!" 

"Just  you  wait.  Miss  Webster  hasn't  waited 
all  these  years  for  nothing." 

Nor  had  she.  The  sudden  and  stupendous 
change  in  her  fortunes  had  routed  grief — made 
her  dizzy  with  possibilities.  She  had  no  desire 
to  travel,  but  she  had  had  a  lifelong  craving  for 
luxury.  She  might  not  have  many  more  years 
to  live,  she  reiterated  to  Miss  Williams,  but  dur- 
ing those  years  her  wealth  should  buy  her  all  that 
her  soul  had  ever  yearned  for. 

In  due  course  the  old  exclusive  families  of  the 
infant  city  received  large  squares  of  pasteboard 
heavily  bordered  with  black,  intimating  that 
Miss  Webster  would  be  at  home  to  her  friends  on 
Thursdays  at  four  of  the  clock.  On  the  first 
Thursday  thereafter  the  parlor  of  Webster  Hall 
was  as  crowded  as  on  the  day  of  the  funeral. 
"  But  who  would  ever  know  the  old  barrack?"  as 
the  visitors  whispered.  Costly  lace  hid  the  win- 
dow-panes, heavy  pale -blue  satin  the  ancient 
frames.  The  walls  were  frescoed  with  pink 
angels  rising  from  the  tinting  clouds  of  dawn. 
The  carpet  was  of  light -blue  velvet;  the  deep 
luxurious  chairs  and  divans  and  the  portieres 
were  of  blue  satin.  The  wood -work  was  enam- 
elled with  silver.  Out  in  the  wide  hall  Persian 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 

rugs  lay  on  the  inlaid  floors,  tapestry  cloth  hid 
the  walls.  Carved  furniture  stood  in  the  niches 
and  the  alcoves.  Through  the  open  doors  of  the 
library  the  guests  saw  walls  upholstered  with 
leather,  low  bookcases,  busts  of  marble  and 
bronze.  An  old  laboratory  off  the  doctor's  study 
had  been  transformed  into  a  dining-room,  as  ex- 
pensive and  conventional  as  the  other  rooms. 
There  a  dainty  luncheon  was  spread. 

Miss  Webster  led  the  lakeside  people  up-stairs. 
The  many  spare  bedrooms  had  been  handsomely 
furnished,  each  in  a  different  color.  When  the 
guests  were  finally  permitted  to  enter  Miss  Web- 
ster's own  virgin  bower  their  chins  dropped  help- 
lessly. Only  this  saved  them  from  laughing  out- 
right. 

The  room  was  furnished  as  for  a  pampered 
beauty.  The  walls  were  covered  with  pink  silk 
shimmering  under  delicate  lace.  The  white 
enamel  bed  and  dressing-table  were  bountifully 
draped  with  the  same  materials.  Light  filtered 
through  rustling  pink.  The  white  carpet  was 
sprinkled  with  pink  roses.  The  trappings  of  the 
dressing-table  were  of  crystal  and  gold.  In  one 
corner  stood  a  Psyche  mirror.  Two  tall  lamps 
were  hooded  with  pink. 

All  saw  the  humor ;  none  the  pathos. 

The  doctor's  room  had  been  left  untouched. 
132 


A    Monarch    of   a    Small    Survey 

Sentiment  and  the  value  of  the  old  mahogany 
had  saved  it.  Miss  Williams's  room  was  also  the 
same  little  cell.  She  assisted  to  receive  the  guests 
in  a  new  black  silk  gown.  Miss  Webster  was  .clad 
from  head  to  foot  in  English  crepe,  with  deep  collar 
and  girdle  of  dull  jet. 

That  was  a  memorable  day  in  the  history  of  the 
city. 

Thereafter  Miss  Webster  gave  an  elaborate 
dinner-party  every  Sunday  evening  at  seven 
o'clock.  No  patient  groans  greeted  her  invita- 
tions. Never  did  a  lone  woman  receive  such  un- 
flagging attentions. 

At  each  dinner  she  wore  a  different  gown.  It 
was  at  the  third  that  she  dazzled  her  guests  with 
an  immense  pair  of  diamond  earrings.  At  the 
fourth  they  whispered  that  she  had  been  having 
her  nails  manicured.  At  the  fifth  it  was  pain- 
fully evident  that  she  was  laced.  At  the  sixth 
they  stared  and  held  their  breath:  Miss  Webster 
was  unmistakably  painted.  But  it  was  at  the 
tenth  dinner  that  they  were  speechless  and  stupid : 
Miss  Webster  wore  a  blond  wig. 

"  They  can  just  talk  all  they  like,"  said  the  lady 
to  her  companion  that  last  night,  as  she  sat  before 
her  mirror  regarding  her  aged  charms.  "  I  have 
four  millions,  and  I  shall  do  as  I  please.  It's  the 
first  time  I  ever  could,  and  I  intend  to  enjoy 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 

every  privilege  that  wealth  and  independence 
can  give.  Whose  business  is  it,  anyway?"  she 
demanded,  querulously. 

"No  one's.  But  it  is  a  trifle  ridiculous,  and 
you  must  expect  people  to  talk." 

"They'd  better  talk!"  There  was  a  sudden 
suggestion  of  her  brother's  personality,  never 
before  apparent.  "But  why  is  it  ridiculous,  I 
should  like  to  know  ?  Hasn't  a  woman  the  right 
to  be  young  if  she  can  ?  I  loved  Hiram.  I  was  a 
faithful  and  devoted  sister ;  but  he  took  my  youth, 
and  now  that  he  has  given  it  back,  as  it  were  I'll 
make  the  most  of  it." 

"You  can't  be  young  again." 

"Perhaps  not,  in  years;  but  I'll  have  all  that 
belongs  to  youth." 

"  Not  all.     No  man  will  love  you." 

Miss  Webster  brought  her  false  teeth  together 
with  a  snap.  "Why  not,  I  should  like  to  know? 
What  difference  do  a  few  years  make  ?  Seventy 
is  not  much,  in  any  other  calculation.  Fancy 
if  you  had  only  seventy  dollars  between  you  and 
starvation!  Think  of  how  many  thousands  of 
years  old  the  world  is !  I  have  now  all  that  makes 
a  woman  attractive — wealth,  beautiful  surround- 
ings, scientific  care.  The  steam  is  taking  out  my 
wrinkles;  I  can  see  it." 

She    turned    suddenly  from    the    glass    and 


A    Monarch    of  a    Small    Survey 

flashed  a  look  of  resentment  on  her  compan- 
ion. 

"But  I  wish  I  had  your  thirty  years'  advan- 
tage. I  do!  I  do!  Then  they'd  see." 

The  two  women  regarded  each  other  in  silence 
for  a  long  moment.  Love  had  gone 'from  the  eyes 
and  the  hearts  of  both.  Hate,  unacknowledged 
as  yet,  was  growing.  Miss  Webster  bitterly  en- 
vied the  wide  gulf  between  old  age  and  her  quar- 
ter-century companion  and  friend.  Abigail  bit- 
terly envied  the  older  woman's  power  to  invoke 
the  resemblance  and  appurtenances  of  youth,  to 
indulge  her  lifelong  yearnings. 

When  the  companion  went  to  her  pillow  that 
night  she  wept  passionately.  "  I  will  go,"  she  said. 
"I'll  be  a  servant;  but  I'll  stay  here  no  longer." 

The  next  morning  she  stood  on  the  veranda 
and  watched  Miss  Webster  drive  away  to  market. 
The  carriage  and  horses  were  unsurpassed  in  Cal- 
ifornia. The  coachman  and  footman  were  in 
livery.  The  heiress  was  attired  in  lustreless 
black  silk  elaborately  trimmed  with  jet.  A 
large  hat  covered  with  plumes  was  kept  in  place 
above  her  painted  face  and  red  wig  by  a  heavily 
dotted  veil — that  crier  of  departed  charms.  She 
held  a  black  lace  parasol  in  one  carefully  gloved 
hand.  Her  pretty  foot  was  encased  in  patent 
leather. 

135 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 

"The  old  fool!"  murmured  Abby.  "Why, 
oh,  why  could  it  not  have  been  mine  ?  I 
could  make  myself  young  without  being  ridic- 
ulous." 

She  let  her  duties  go  and  sauntered  down  to 
the  lake.  Many  painted  boats  were  anchored 
close  to  ornamental  boat-houses.  They  seemed 
strangely  out  of  place  beneath  the  sad  old  willows. 
The  lawns  were  green  with  the  green  of  spring. 
Roses  ran  riot  everywhere.  The  windows  of  the 
handsome  old-fashioned  houses  were  open,  and 
Abby  was  afforded  glimpses  of  fluttering  white 
gowns,  heard  the  tinkle  of  the  mandolin,  the  cold 
precise  strains  of  the  piano,  the  sudden  uplifting 
of  a  youthful  soprano. 

"After  all,  it  only  makes  a  little  difference  to 
them  that  they  got  nothing,"  thought  the  com- 
panion, with  a  sigh. 

A  young  man  stepped  from  one  of  the  long  win- 
dows of  the  Holt  mansion  and  came  down  the  lawn. 
Miss  Williams  recognized  Strowbridge.  She  had 
not  seen  him  for  several  weeks;  but  he  had  had 
his  part  in  her  bitter  moments,  and  her  heart  beat 
at  sight  of  him  to-day. 

"I  too  am  a  fool,"  she  thought.  "Even  with 
her  money  my  case  would  be  hopeless.  I  am 
nearly  double  his  age." 

He  jumped  into  a  boat  and  rowed  down  the 
136 


A    Monarch    of  a    Small    Survey 

lake.  As  he  passed  the  Webster  grounds  he 
looked  up  and  saw  Abby  standing  there. 

"Hulloa!"  he  called,  as  if  he  were  addressing  a 
girl  of  sixteen.  "How  are  you,  all  these  years? 
Jump  in  and  take  a  row." 

He  made  his  landing,  sprang  to  the  shore  and 
led  her  to  the  boat  with  the  air  of  one  who  was  not 
in  the  habit  of  being  refused.  Abby  had  no  in- 
clination to  suppress  him.  She  stepped  lightly 
into  the  boat,  and  a  moment  later  was  gliding 
down  the  lake,  looking  with  admiring  eyes  on 
the  strong  young  figure  in  its  sweater  and  white 
trousers.  A  yachting-cap  was  pulled  over  his 
blue  eyes.  His  face  was  bronzed.  Abby  won- 
dered if  many  young  men  were  as  handsome  as  he. 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  he  was  merely  a  fine  speci- 
men of  young  American  manhood,  whose  charm 
lay  in  his  frank  manner  and  kindness  of  heart. 

"Like  this?"  he  asked,  smiling  into  her  eyes. 

"Yes,  indeed.  Hiram  used  to  row  us  some- 
times; but  the  boat  lurched  so  when  he  lost  his 
temper  that  I  was  in  constant  fear  of  being  tipped 


over." 


"  Hiram  must  have  been  a  terror  to  cats." 
"A  what?" 

' '  Beg  pardon !     Of  course  you  don't  know  much 
slang.     Beastly  habit." 

He  rowed  up  and  down  the  lake  many  times, 
i37 


The    Bell   in    the    Fog 

floating  idly  in  the  long  recesses  where  the  wil- 
lows met  overhead.  He  talked  constantly;  told 
her  yarns  of  his  college  life ;  described  boat-races 
and  football  matches  in  which  he  had  taken  part. 
At  first  his  only  impulse  was  to  amuse  the  lonely 
old  maid;  but  she  proved  such  a  delighted  and 
sympathetic  listener  that  he  forgot  to  pity  her. 
An  hour  passed,  and  with  it  her  bitterness.  She 
no  longer  felt  that  she  must  leave  Webster  Hall. 
But  she  remembered  her  duties,  and  regretfully 
asked  him  to  land  her. 

"Well,  if  I  must,"  he  said.  "But  I'm  sorry, 
and  we'll  do  it  again  some  day.  I'm  awfully 
obliged  to  you  for  coming." 

" Obliged  to  me? — you?"  she  said,  as  he  helped 
her  to  shore.  "Oh,  you  don't  know—  And 
laughing  lightly,  she  went  rapidly  up  the  path  to 
the  house. 

Miss  Webster  was  standing  on  the  veranda. 
Her  brows  were  together  in  an  ugly  scowl. 

"  Well !"  she  exclaimed.  "  So  you  go  gallivant- 
ing about  with  boys  in  your  old  age !  Aren't  you 
ashamed  to  make  such  an  exhibition  of  yourself  ?" 

Abby  felt  as  if  a  hot  palm  had  struck  her  face. 
Then  a  new  spirit,  born  of  caressed  vanity,  as- 
serted itself. 

"Wouldn't  you  have  done  the  same  if  you  had 
been  asked?"  she  demanded. 

138 


A    Monarch    of  a    Small    Survey 

Miss  Webster  turned  her  back  and  went  up  to 
her  room.  She  locked  the  door  and  burst  into 
tears.  "I  can't  help  it,"  she  sobbed,  helplessly. 
"  It's  dreadful  of  me  to  hate  Abby  after  all  these 
years;  but — those  terrible  thirty!  I'd  give  three 
of  my  millions  to  be  where  she  is.  I  used  to 
think  she  was  old,  too.  But  she  isn't.  She's 
young!  Young! — a  baby  compared  to  me.  I 
could  more  than  be  her  mother.  Oh,  I  must  try 
as  a  Christian  woman  to  tear  this  feeling  from  my 
heart." 

She  wrote  off  a  check  and  directed  it  to  her 
pastor,  then  rang  for  the  trained  nurse  her  physi- 
cian had  imported  from  New  York,  and  ordered 
her  to  steam  and  massage  her  face  and  rub  her 
old  body  with  spirits  of  wine  and  unguents. 

Strowbridge  acquired  the  habit  of  dropping  in 
on  Miss  Williams  at  all  hours.  Sometimes  he 
called  at  the  dairy  and  sat  on  a  corner  of  the  table 
while  she  superintended  the  butter-making.  He 
liked  her  old-fashioned  music,  and  often  persuad- 
ed her  to  play  for  him  on  the  new  grand  piano  in 
the  sky-blue  parlor.  He  brought  her  many  books 
by  the  latter-day  authors,  all  of  them  stories  by 
men  about  men.  He  had  a  young  contempt  for 
the  literature  of  sentiment  and  sex.  Even  Miss 
Webster  grew  to  like  him,  partly  because  he  ig- 
nored the  possibility  of  her  doing  otherwise, 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 

partly  because  his  vital  frank  personality  was 
irresistible.  She  even  invited  him  informally  to 
dinner;  and  after  a  time  he  joked  and  guyed  her 
as  if  she  were  a  school-girl,  which  pleased  her 
mightily.  Of  Miss  Williams  he  was  sincerely 
fond. 

"You  are  so  jolly  companionable,  don't  you 
know,"  he  would  say  to  her.  "Most  girls  are 
bores;  don't  know  enough  to  have  anything  to 
talk  about,  and  want  to  be  flattered  and  flirted 
with  all  the  time.  But  I  feel  as  if  you  were  just 
another  fellow,  don't  you  know." 

"  Oh,  I  am  used  to  the  role  of  companion,"  she 
would  reply. 

With  the  first  days  of  June  he  returned  to 
Boston,  and  the  sun  turned  gray  for  one  woman. 

Life  went  its  way  in  the  old  house.  People 
became  accustomed  to  the  spectacle  of  Miss  Web- 
ster rejuvenated,  and  forgot  to  flatter.  It  may 
be  added  that  men  forgot  to  propose,  in  spite  of 
the  four  millions.  Deeper  grew  the  gulf  between 
the  two  women.  Once  in  every  week  Abby 
vowed  she  would  leave,  but  habit  was  too  strong. 
Once  in  every  week  Miss  Webster  vowed  she 
would  turn  the  companion  out,  but  dependence 
on  the  younger  woman  had  grdwn  into  the  fibres 
of  her  old  being. 

Strowbridge  returned  the  following  summer. 
140 


A    Monarch    of  a    Small    Survey 

Almost  immediately  he  called  on  Miss  Will- 
iams. 

"  I  feel  as  if  you  were  one  of  the  oldest  friends  I 
have  in  the  world,  don't  you  know,"  he  said,  as 
they  sat  together  on  the  veranda.  "And  I've 
brought  you  a  little  present — if  you  don't  mind. 
I  thought  maybe  you  wouldn't." 

He  took  a  small  case  from  his  pocket,  touched 
a  spring,  and  revealed  a  tiny  gold  watch  and  fob. 
"You  know,"  he  had  said  to  himself  apologet- 
ically as  he  bought  it,  "I  can  give  it  to  her  be- 
cause she's  so  much  older  than  myself.  It's  not 
vulgar,  like  giving  handsome  presents  to  girls. 
And  then  we  are  friends.  I'm  sure  she  won't 
mind,  poor  old  thing!"  Nevertheless,  he  looked 
at  her  with  some  apprehension. 

His  misgivings  proved  to  be  vagaries  of  his 
imagination.  Abby  gazed  at  the  beautiful  toy 
with  radiant  face.  "For  me!"  she  exclaimed — 
"that  lovely  thing?  And  you  really  bought  it 
forme?" 

"Why,  of  course  I  did,"  he  said,  too  relieved 
to  note  the  significance  of  her  pleasure.  "And 
you'll  take  it?" 

"  Indeed  I'll  take  it."  She  laid  it  on  her  palm 
and  looked  at  it  with  rapture.  She  fastened  the 
fob  in  a  buttonhole  of  her  blouse,  but  removed  it 
with  a  shake  of  the  head.  "I'll  just  keep  it  to 

141 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 

look  at,  and  only  wear  it  with  my  black  silk.  It's 
out  of  place  on  this  rusty  alpaca." 

"  What  a  close-fisted  old  girl  the  Circus  must — " 

"Oh,  hush,  hush!  She  might  hear  you." 
Abby  rose  hastily.  "Let  us  walk  in  the  gar- 
den." 

They  sauntered  between  the  now  well-kept 
lawns  and  flower-beds  and  entered  a  long  avenue 
of  fig-trees.  The  purple  fruit  hung  abundantly 
among  the  large  green  leaves.  Miss  Williams 
opened  one  of  the  figs  and  showed  Strowbridge 
the  red  luscious  pith. 

"You  don't  have  these  over  there." 

"We  don't.     Are  they  good  to  eat  this  way?" 

She  held  one  of  the  oval  halves  to  his  mouth. 

"Eat!"  she  said. 

And  he  did.  Then  he  ate  a  dozen  more  that 
she  broke  for  him. 

"I  feel  like  a  greedy  school-boy,"  he  said. 
"  But  they  are  good,  and  no  mistake.  You  have 
introduced  me  to  another  pleasure.  Now  let  us 
go  and  take  a  pull." 

All  that  afternoon  there  was  no  mirror  to  tell 
her  that  she  was  not  the  girl  who  had  come  to 
Webster  Hall  a  quarter  of  a  century  before. 
That  night  she  knelt  long  by  her  bed,  pressing 
her  hands  about  her  face. 

"  I  am  a  fool,  I  know,"  she  thought,  "but  such 
142 


A    Monarch    of    a    Small    Survey 

things  have  been.  If  only  I  had  a  little  of  her 
money." 

The  next  day  she  went  down  to  the  lake,  not 
admitting  that  she  expected  him  to  take  her  out ; 
it  would  be  enough  to  see  him.  She  saw  him. 
He  rowed  past  with  Elinor  Holt,  the  most  beau- 
tiful girl  of  the  lakeside.  His  gaze  was  fixed  on 
the  flushed  face,  the  limpid  eyes.  He  did  not 
look  up. 

Miss  Williams  walked  back  to  the  house  with 
the  odd  feeling  that  she  had  been  smitten  with 
paralysis  and  some  unseen  force  was  propelling 
her.  But  she  was  immediately  absorbed  in  the 
manifold  duties  of  the  housekeeping.  When 
leisure  came  reaction  had  preceded  it. 

"I  am  a  fool,"  she  thought.  "Of  course  he 
must  show  Elinor  Holt  attention.  He  is  her 
father's  guest.  But  he  might  have  looked  up." 

That  night  she  could  not  sleep.  Suddenly  she 
was  lifted  from  her  thoughts  by  strange  sounds 
that  came  to  her  from  the  hall  without.  She 
opened  the  door  cautiously.  A  white  figure  was 
flitting  up  and  down,  wringing  its  hands,  the  gray 
hair  bobbing  about  the  jerking  head. 

"No  use!"  it  moaned.  "No  use,  no  use,  no 
use!  I'm  old,  old,  old!  Seventy-four,  seventy- 
four,  seventy-four!  Oh,  Lord!  oh,  Lord!  oh, 
Lord!  Thy  ways  are  past  finding  out.  Amen!" 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 

Abby  closed  her  door  hurriedly.  She  felt  the 
tragedy  out  there  was  not  for  mortal  eyes  to  look 
upon.  In  a  few  moments  she  heard  the  steps 
pause  before  her  door.  Hands  beat  lightly  upon 
it. 

"  Give  me  back  those  thirty  years!"  whimpered 
the  old  voice.  "They  are  mine!  You  have 
stolen  them  from  me!" 

Abby's  hair  rose.  "Is  Marian  going  mad?" 
she  thought. 

But  the  next  morning  Miss  Webster  looked  as 
usual  when  she  appeared,  after  her  late  breakfast 
in  bed,  bedecked  for  her  drive  to  market.  She 
had  modified  her  mourning,  and  wore  a  lavender 
cheviot,  and  the  parasol  and  hat  were  in  harmony 
with  all  but  herself. 

"Poor  old  caricature!"  thought  Abby.  "She 
makes  me  feel  young." 

A  week  later,  when  the  maid  entered  Miss  Web- 
ster's bedroom  at  the  accustomed  morning  hour, 
she  found  that  the  bed  had  not  been  occupied. 
Nor  was  her  mistress  visible.  The  woman  in- 
formed Miss  Williams  at  once,  and  together  they 
searched  the  house.  They  found  her  in  her 
brother's  room,  in  the  old  mahogany  bed  in 
which  she  too  had  been  born.  She  was  dead.  Her 
gray  hair  was  smooth  under  her  lace  nightcap. 
Her  hands  were  folded,  the  nails  glistening  in  the 

144 


A    Monarch    of  a    Small    Survey 

dusky  room.  Death  had  come  peacefully,  as  to 
her  brother.  What  had  taken  her  there  to  meet 
it  was  the  last  mystery  of  her  strange  old  soul. 


Ill 


Again  a  funeral  in  the  old  house,  again  a  crowd 
of  mourners.  This  time  there  was  less  ostenta- 
tion of  grief,  for  no  one  was  left  worth  impressing. 
The  lakeside  people  gathered,  as  before,  at  the 
upper  end  of  the  parlor  and  gossiped  freely. 
"Miss  Williams  ought  to  have  put  the  blond  wig 
on  her,"  said  Mrs.  Holt.  "  I  am  sure  that  is  what 
Marian  would  have  done  for  herself.  Poor  Mari- 
an! She  was  a  good  soul,  after  all,  and  really 
gave  liberally  to  charity.  I  wonder  if  she  has 
left  Miss  Williams  anything?" 

"  Of  course.  She  will  come  in  for  a  good  slice. 
Who  is  better  entitled  to  a  legacy?" 

Pertinent  question!  They  exchanged  amused 
glances.  Words  were  superfluous,  but  Mrs.  Holt 
continued : 

"  I  think  we  are  pretty  sure  of  our  shanties  this 
time;  Marian  was  really  fond  of  us,  and  had 
neither  kith  nor  kin;  but  I,  for  one,  am  going  to 
make  sure  of  some  memento  of  the  famous  Web- 
ster estate."  And  she  deliberately  opened  a 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 

cabinet,  lifted  down  a  small  antique  teapot,  and 
slipped  it  into  her  bag. 

The  others  laughed  noiselessly.  "That  is  like 
your  humor,"  said  Mrs.  Meeker.  Then  all  bent 
their  heads  reverently.  The  ceremony  had  be- 
gun. 

Two  days  later  Miss  Williams  wandered  rest- 
lessly up  and  down  the  hall  waiting  for  the  even- 
ing newspaper.  She  made  no  attempt  to  deceive 
herself  this  time.  She  thought  tenderly  of  the 
dead,  but  she  was  frankly  eager  to  learn  just 
what  position  in  the  world  her  old  friend's  legacy 
would  give  her.  Two  or  three  times  she  had 
been  on  the  point  of  going  to  a  hotel ;  but  deeply 
as  she  hated  the  place,  the  grip  of  the  years  was 
too  strong.  She  felt  that  she  could  not  go  until 
the  law  compelled  her. 

"I  cannot  get  the  capital  for  ten  months,*'  she 
thought,  "but  I  can  get  the  income,  or  borrow; 
and  I  can  live  in  the  city,  or  perhaps —  But  I 
must  not  think  of  that." 

A  boy  appeared  at  the  end  of  the  walk.  His 
arms  were  full  of  newspapers,  and  he  rolled  one 
with  expert  haste.  Miss  Williams  could  contain 
herself  no  further.  She  ran  down  the  walk. 
The  boy  gave  the  paper  a  sudden  twist  and  threw 
it  to  her.  She  caught  it  and  ran  up-stairs  to  her 
room  and  locked  the  door.  For  a  moment  she 

146 


A    Monarch    of   a    Small    Survey 

turned  faint.  Then  she  shook  the  paper  violently 
apart.  She  had  not  far  to  search.  The  will  of 
so  important  a  personage  as  Miss  Webster  was 
necessarily  on  the  first  page.  The  "  story"  oc- 
cupied a  column,  and  the  contents  were  set  forth 
in  the  head-lines.  The  head-lines  read  as  fol- 
lows: 

WILL  OF  MISS  MARIAN  WEBSTER 


SHE  LEAVES  HER  VAST  FORTUNE  TO 
CHARITY 


FOUR     MILLIONS     THE     PRICE     OF     ETERNAL 
FAME 

NO  LEGACIES 

The  room  whirled  round  the  forgotten  woman. 
She  turned  sick,  then  cold  to  her  marrow.  She 
fell  limply  to  the  floor,  and  crouched  there  with 
the  newspaper  in  her  hand.  After  a  time  she 
spread  it  out  on  the  floor  and  spelled  through  the 
dancing  characters  in  the  long  column.  Her 
name  was  not  mentioned.  Those  thirty  years 
had  outweighed  the  devotion  of  more  than  half  a 
lifetime.  It  was  the  old  woman's  only  revenge, 
and  she  had  taken  it. 

No  tears  came  to  Miss  Williams 's  relief.  She 
gasped  occasionally.  "How  could  she?  how 
could  she?  how  could  she?"  her  mind  reiter- 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 

ated.  "What  difference  would  it  have  made  to 
her  after  she  was  dead  ?  And  I — oh  God — what 
will  become  of  me?"  For  a  time  she  did  not 
think  of  Strowbridge.  When  she  did,  it  was  to 
see  him  smiling  into  the  eyes  of  Elinor  Holt. 
Her  delusion  fell  from  her  in  that  hour  of  terrible 
realities.  Had  she  read  of  his  engagement  in 
the  newspaper  before  her  she  would  have  felt  no 
surprise.  She  knew  now  what  had  brought  him 
back  to  California.  Many  trifles  that  she  had 
not  noted  at  the  time  linked  themselves  sym- 
metrically together,  and  the  chain  bound  the 
two  young  people. 

"  Fool!  fool!"  she  exclaimed.  "  But  no— thank 
heaven,  I  had  that  one  little  dream! — the  only 
one  in  forty-three  years!" 

The  maid  tapped  at  her  door  and  announced 
dinner.  She  bade  her  go  away.  She  remained 
on  the  floor,  in  the  dark,  for  many  hours.  The 
stars  were  bright,  but  the  wind  lashed  the  lake, 
whipped  the  trees  against  the  roof.  When  the 
night  was  half  done  she  staggered  to  her  feet. 
Her  limbs  were  cramped  and  numbed.  She 
opened  the  door  and  listened.  The  lights  were 
out,  the  house  was  still.  She  limped  over  to  the 
room  which  had  been  Miss  Webster's.  That  too 
was  dark.  She  lighted  the  lamps  and  flooded  the 
room  with  soft  pink  light.  She  let  down  her  hair, 

148 


A    Monarch    of  a    Small    Survey 

and  with  the  old  lady's  long  scissors  cut  a  thick 
fringe.  The  hair  fell  softly,  but  the  parting  of 
years  was  obtrusive.  A  bottle  of  gum  traga- 
canth  stood  on  one  corner  of  the  dressing-table, 
and  with  its  contents  Abby  matted  the  unneigh- 
borly  locks  together.  The  fringe  covered  her 
careworn  brow,  but  her  face  was  pallid,  faded. 
She  knew  where  Miss  Webster  had  kept  her  cos- 
metics. A  moment  later  an  array  of  bottles,  jars, 
and  rouge-pots  stood  on  the  table  before  her. 

She  applied  the  white  paint,  then  the  red.  She 
darkened  her  eyelashes,  drew  the  lip-salve  across 
her  pale  mouth.  She  arranged  her  soft  abundant 
hair  in  a  loose  knot.  Then  she  flung  off  her  black 
frock,  selected  a  magnificent  white  satin  dinner- 
gown  from  the  wardrobe,  and  put  it  on.  The 
square  neck  was  filled  with  lace,  and  it  hid  her 
skinny  throat.  She  put  her  feet  into  French 
slippers  and  drew  long  gloves  up  to  her  elbows. 
Then  she  regarded  herself  in  the  Psyche  mirror. 

Her  eyes  glittered.  The  cosmetics,  in  the  soft 
pink  light,  were  the  tintings  of  nature  and  youth. 
She  was  almost  beautiful. 

"  That  is  what  I  might  have  been  without  aid 
of  art  had  wealth  been  mine  from  the  moment 
that  care  of  nature's  gifts  was  necessary,"  she 
said,  addressing  her  image.  "  I  would  not  have 
needed  paint  for  years  yet,  and  when  I  did  I 

xx  149 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 

should  have  known  how  to  use  it!  I  need  not 
have  been  old  and  worn  at  forty-three.  Even 
now — even  now — if  wealth  were  mine,  and  hap- 
piness!" She  leaned  forward,  and  pressing  her 
finger  against  the  glass,  spoke  deliberately;  there 
was  no  passion  in  her  tones:  "When  that  letter 
came  twenty-five  years  ago  offering  me  a  home,  I 
wish  I  had  flouted  it,  although  I  did  not  have 
five  dollars  in  the  world.  I  wish  I  had  become 
a  harlot  —  a  harlot !  do  you  hear  ?  Nothing — 
nothing  in  life  can  be  as  bad  as  life  empty,  wasted, 
emotionless,  stagnant!  I  have  existed  forty- 
three  years  in  this  great,  beautiful,  multiform 
world,  and  I  might  as  well  have  died  at  birth  for 
all  that  it  has  meant  to  me.  Nature  gave  me 
abundantly  of  her  instincts.  I  could  have  been  a 
devoted  wife,  a  happy  mother,  a  gay  and  careless 
harlot !  I  would  have  chosen  the  first,  but  failing 
that — rather  the  last  a  thousand  times  than  this ! 
For  then  I  should  have  had  some  years  of  pleas- 
ure, excitement,  knowledge — 

She  turned  abruptly  and  started  for  the  door, 
stopped,  hesitated,  then  walked  slowly  to  the 
wardrobe.  She  unhooked  a  frock  of  nun's  veiling 
and  tore  out  the  back  breadths.  She  returned  to 
the  mirror  and  fastened  the  soft  flowing  stuff  to 
her  head  with  several  of  the  dead  woman's  orna- 
mental pins. 


A    Monarch    of   a    Small    Survey 

For  a  few  moments  longer  she  gazed  at  herself, 
this  time  silently.  Her  eyes  had  the  blank  look 
of  introspection.  Then  she  went  from  the  house 
and  down  to  the  lake. 

The  next  day  the  city  on  the  ranches  was  able 
to  assure  itself  comfortably  that  Webster  Lake 
had  had  its  tragedy. 

Of  the  Tragedy  it  knew  nothing. 


VI 

The    Tragedy    of  a    Snob 


The    Tragedy    of   a    Snob 


[E  first  twenty-three  years  of 
Andrew  Webb's  life  were  passed 
in  that  tranquillity  of  mind  and 
body  induced  by  regular  work, 
love  of  exercise,  and  a  good  di- 
gestion. He  lived  in  a  little 
flat  in  Harlem,  with  his  widowed  mother  and  a 
younger  sister  who  was  ambitious  to  become  an 
instructor  of  the  young  and  to  prove  that  woman 
may  be  financially  independent  of  man.  At  that 
time  Andrew's  salary  of  thirty  dollars  a  week, 
earned  in  a  large  savings-bank  of  which  he  was 
one  of  many  book-keepers,  covered  the  family's 
needs.  Mr.  Webb  had  died  when  his  son  was 
sixteen,  leaving  something  under  two  thousand 
dollars  and  a  furnished  flat  in  Harlem.  For  a 
time  the  outlook  was  gloomy.  Andrew  left 
school  and  went  to  work.  Good  at  figures,  stoic - 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 

ally  steady,  he  rose  by  degrees  to  command  a 
fair  remuneration.  A  brother  of  Mrs.  Webb, 
currently  known  as  "  Uncle  Sandy  Armstrong," 
lived  in  miserly  fashion  on  the  old  homestead  in 
New  Jersey.  Occasionally  he  sent  his  sister  a 
ten-dollar  bill.  Mrs.  Webb,  believing  him  to  be 
as  straitened  as  herself,  albeit  without  a  family, 
never  applied  to  him  for  assistance.  Twice  a 
year  she  dutifully  visited  him  and  put  his  house 
in  order.  Her  children  rarely  could  be  induced 
to  accompany  her.  They  detested  their  fat  gar- 
rulous unkempt  uncle,  and  only  treated  him 
civilly  out  of  the  goodness  of  their  hearts  and 
respect  for  their  mother.  On  Christmas  Day  he 
invariably  dined  with  them,  and  his  meagre  pres- 
ents by  no  means  atoned  for  his  atrocious  table- 
manners. 

The  family  in  the  flat  was  a  happy  one,  despite 
the  old  carpets,  the  faded  rep  furniture,  the  gen- 
eral air  of  rigid  economy,  and  the  inevitable 
visits  of  Uncle  Sandy.  Mrs.  Webb  was  sweet  of 
temper,  firm  of  character,  sound  of  health.  Her 
cheeks  and  eyes  were  faded,  her  black  dress  was 
always  rusty,  her  general  air  that  of  a  middle- 
class  gentlewoman  who  bore  her  reverses  bravely. 
Polly  was  a  plump  bright-eyed  girl,  with  a  fresh 
complexion  and  her  mother's  evenness  of  temper. 
In  spite  of  her  small  allowance,  she  managed  to 


The   Tragedy    of  a    Snob 

dress  in  the  prevailing  style.  She  had  barely 
emerged  from  short  frocks  when  she  took  a  course 
of  lessons  in  dress-making,  she  knew  how  to  bar- 
gain, and  spent  the  summer  months  replenishing 
her  own  and  her  mother's  wardrobe.  Mrs.  Webb 
did  the  work  of  the  flat,  assisted  by  an  Irish 
maiden  who  came  in  by  the  day:  there  was  no 
place  in  the  flat  for  her  to  sleep. 

Andrew  was  the  idol  of  the  family.  He  sup- 
ported them,  and  he  was  a  thoroughly  good  fel- 
low; he  had  no  bad  habits,  and  they  had  never 
seen  him  angry.  His  neighbors  were  regularly 
made  acquainted  with  the  proud  fact  that  he 
walked  home  from  his  office  in  lower  Broadway 
every  afternoon  in  the  year,  "except  Sundays 
and  during  his  vacation,"  as  his  mother  would 
add.  She  was  a  conscientious  woman.  More- 
over, they  thought  him  very  handsome.  He  was 
five  feet  ten,  lean,  and  athletic  in  appearance. 
It  is  true  that  his  head  was  narrow  and  his  face 
cast  in  a  heavy  mould ;  but  there  was  no  super- 
fluous flesh  in  his  cheeks,  and  his  thick  skin  was 
clean.  Like  his  sister,  he  managed  to  dress  well. 
He  was  obliged  to  buy  his  clothes  ready-made, 
but  he  had  the  gift  of  selection. 

When  the  subtle  change  came,  his  mother  and 
sister  uneasily  confided  to  each  other  the  fear 
that  he  was  in  love.  As  the  years  passed,  how- 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 

ever,  and  he  brought  them  no  new  demand  upon 
their  affections  and  resources,  they  ceased  to 
worry,  and  finally  to  wonder.  Andrew  was  not 
the  old  Andrew ;  but,  if  he  did  not  choose  to 
confide  the  reason,  his  reserve  must  be  respected. 
And  at  least  it  had  affected  neither  his  gener- 
osity nor  his  good  temper.  He  still  spent  his 
evenings  at  home,  listened  to  his  mother  or  Polly 
read  aloud,  and  never  missed  the  little  supper  of 
beer  and  crackers  and  cheese  before  retiring. 


II 


One  morning,  while  Webb  was  still  one  with  his 
little  family,  he  read,  as  was  usual  with  him  on 
the  long  ride  down-town,  his  Harlem  edition  of 
one  of  the  New  York  dailies.  He  finished  the 
news,  the  editorials,  the  special  articles:  nothing 
was  there  to  upset  the  equilibrium  of  his  life. 
His  attention  was  attracted,  as  he  was  about  to 
close  the  paper,  by  a  long  leaded  "story"  of  a 
ball  given  the  night  before  by  some  people  named 
Webb.  Their  superior  social  importance  was 
made  manifest  by  the  space  and  type  allotted 
them,  by  the  fact  that  their  function  was  not 
held  over  for  the  Sunday  issue,  and  by  the  impos- 
ing rhetoric  of  the  head-lines. 

158 


The    Tragedy    of   a    Snob 

Andrew  read  the  story  with  a  feeling  of  per- 
sonal interest.  From  that  moment,  unsuspected 
by  himself,  the  readjustment  of  his  mind  to  other 
interests  began  —  the  divorce  of  his  inner  life 
from  the  simple  conditions  of  his  youth. 

Thereafter  he  searched  the  Society  columns  for 
accounts  of  the  doings  of  the  Webb  folk.  Thence, 
by  a  natural  deflection,  he  became  generally  in- 
terested in  the  recreations  of  the  great  world:  he 
acquired  a  habit,  much  to  his  sister's  delight,  of 
buying  the  weekly  chronicles  of  Society,  and  all 
the  Sunday  issues  of  the  important  dailies. 

At  first  the  sparkle  and  splendor,  the  glamour 
and  mystery  of  the  world  of  fashion  dazzled  and 
delighted  him.  It  was  to  him  what  fairy  tales  of 
prince  and  princess  are  to  children.  For  even  he, 
prosaic,  phlegmatic,  with  nerves  of  iron  and  brain 
of  shallows,  had  in  him  that  germ  of  the  pict- 
uresque which  in  some  natures  shoots  to  high  and 
full-flowered  ideals,  in  others  to  lofty  or  restless 
ambitions,  coupled  with  a  true  love  of  art ;  and 
yet  again  develops  a  weed  of  tenacious  root  and 
coarse  enduring  fibre  which  a  clever  maker  of 
words  has  named  snobbery. 

Gradually  within  Andrew's  slow  mind  grew  a 
dull  resentment  against  Fate  for  having  played 
him  so  sinister  a  trick  as  to  give  him  the  husk 
without  the  kernel,  a  title  without  a  story  that 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 

any  one  would  ever  care  to  read.  Why,  when 
one  of  those  Webb  babies  was  due, — the  family 
appeared  to  be  a  large  one, — could  not  his  little 
wandering  ego  have  found  its  way  into  that  ugly 
but  notable  mansion  on  Fifth  Avenue  instead  of 
having  been  spitefully  guided  to  a  New  Jersey 
farm?  Not  that  Andrew  expressed  himself  in 
this  wise.  Had  he  put  his  thoughts  into  words, 
he  would  probably  have  queried  in  good  terse 
English:  "Why  in  thunder  can't  I  be  Schuyler 
Churchill  Webb  instead  of  a  nobody  in  Harlem? 
He's  just  my  age,  and  I  might  as  well  have  been 
he  as  not." 

His  twenty-third  birthday  cake,  prepared  by 
loving  hands,  had  scarcely  been  eaten  when  the 
waves  of  snobbery  first  lapped  his  feet.  At 
twenty-five  they  had  broken  high  above  his  head, 
and  the  surge  was  ever  in  his  ears.  He  was  not 
acutely  miserable :  his  health  was  too  perfect,  his 
appetite  too  good.  But  deeper  and  deeper  each 
week  did  he  bury  his  perplexed  head  in  the  social 
folk-lore  of  New  York  and  Newport.  Oftener 
and  oftener  during  the  city  season  did  he  prom- 
enade central  Fifth  Avenue  from  half-past  four 
until  half-past  five  in  the  afternoon  of  pleasant 
days.  He  lived  for  the  hour  which  would  find 
him  sauntering  from  Forty-first  Street  to  the 
Park  and  back  again.  He  knew  all  the  fashion- 

160 


The    Tragedy   of  a    Snob 

able  men  and  women  by  sight.  There  was  no 
one  to  tell  him  their  names,  but  the  names  them- 
selves were  more  familiar  than  the  rows  of  fig- 
ures in  his  books  down-town.  He  fitted  them 
to  such  presences  as  seemed  to  demand  them  as 
their  right.  He  grew  into  a  certain  intimacy 
with  the  slender  trimly  accoutred  girls  who  held 
themselves  so  erectly  and  wore  their  hair  with 
such  maidenly  severity.  They  were  so  different 
in  appearance  from  all  the  women  he  had  known 
or  seen,  and  from  the  languishing  creatures  in  his 
mother's  cherished  Book  of  Beauty,  that  he  came 
to  look  upon  them  as  a  race  apart,  which  they 
were ;  as  something  not  quite  human,  \vhich  was 
a  slander.  As  they  stalked  along  so  briskly  in 
their  tailor-made  frocks,  their  cheeks  and  eyes 
brilliant  with  health,  the  average  observer  would 
have  likened  them  to  healthy  high-bred  young 
race-horses. 

On  the  whole,  however,  Andrew  gave  the  full 
measure  of  his  admiration  to  the  women  who 
took  their  exercise  less  violently.  When  the 
spring  came,  and  the  Park  was  green,  he  would 
stand  in  the  plaza,  surrounded  by  its  great  hotels, 
the  deep  rumble  of  the  avenue  behind  him,  for- 
getting even  the  phalanxes  of  tramping  girls, 
with  their  accessories  of  boys  and  poodles.  Be- 
fore him  were  the  wide  gates  of  the  Park,  the 

161 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 

green  wooded  knolls  rolling  away — almost  to  his 
home  in  Harlem.  Just  beyond  the  gates  was  a 
bend  in  the  driveway,  and  he  never  tired  of 
watching  the  stream  of  carriages  wind  as  from  a 
cavern  and  roll  out  to  the  avenue.  The  vivid 
background  claimed  as  its  own  those  superb 
traps  with  their  dainty  burdens  of  women  who 
held  their  heads  so  haughtily,  whose  plumage 
was  so  brilliant.  The  horses  glittered  and 
pranced.  The  parasols  fluttered  like  butterflies 
above  the  flower -faces  beneath.  Webb  would 
stand  entranced,  bitterly  thankful  that  there  was 
such  a  scene  for  him  to  look  upon,  choking  back 
a  sob  that  he  had  no  part  in  it. 

When  summer  came  and  Society  flitted  to  New- 
port, that  paradise  in  which  he  only  half  believed, 
he  was  more  lonely  and  glum  than  the  loneliest  and 
glummest  and  most  blast  clubman,  who  clung  to 
his  window  because  he  hated  Newport  and  could 
not  afford  London.  Quite  accidentally,  when 
his  infatuation  was  about  three  years  old,  he 
came  into  a  singular  compensation.  In  the  sum- 
mer, during  his  ten  days'  vacation,  when  he  was 
tramping  through  the  woods,  he  fell  in  with  a 
party  of  Western  people,  who  manifested  much 
interest  in  New  York.  To  Andrew  there  was 
only  one  New  York,  and  with  that  his  soul  was 

162 


The    Tragedy   of   a    Snob 

identified.  Insensibly,  he  began  to  talk  of  New 
York  Society  as  if  it  were  part  of  his  daily  ex- 
perience. His  careful,  if  restricted,  study  of  its 
habits  had  made  him  sufficiently  familiar  with  it 
to  enable  him  to  deceive  the  wholly  ignorant. 
He  described  the  people,  their  brilliant  "func- 
tions," the  individualities  of  certain  of  its  mem- 
bers. He  talked  freely  of  Ward  McAllister,  and 
imitated  that  gentleman's  peculiarities  of  thought 
and  speech,  so  familiar  to  the  newspaper  reader. 
For  the  time  he  deceived  himself  as  well  as  his 
hearers ;  and  so  fascinating  did  he  find  this  delu- 
sion, that  he  remained  with  the  inquisitive  and 
guileless  party  until  the  end  of  his  vacation. 
After  that  he  made  it  a  point  each  year  to  attach 
himself  to  some  party  of  tourists,  and  to  tell 
them  of  New  York  Society,  plus  Andrew  Webb. 
He  was  not  a  liar  in  the  ordinary  sense  of  the  word. 
In  his  home  and  in  the  bank  where  he  played  his 
daily  game  of  give-and-take,  his  reputation  for 
veracity  was  enviable.  Every  mortal  not  an 
idiot  has  his  day-dreams.  Webb  merely  dreamed 
his  aloud  to  an  audience.  And  these  summers 
were  the  oases  of  his  life. 

He  had  one  other  pleasure  equally  keen.  On 
the  first  day  of  each  month  he  dined  at  Del- 
monico's.  In  the  beginning  it  meant  the  forfeit 
of  his  usual  stand-up  luncheon,  but  he  had  de- 

163 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 

cided  that  the  cause  was  worthy  of  the  sacrifice. 
One  evening,  however,  he  lingered  on  upper 
Fifth  Avenue  longer  than  usual,  and  entered  late. 
The  restaurant  was  crowded.  He  stood  at  the 
door,  hesitating,  knowing  that  he  would  not  be 
permitted  to  seat  himself  at  a  table  already  oc- 
cupied by  even  one  person.  Suddenly  a  small 
common-looking  little  man  came  forward  and 
touched  his  arm. 

"Won't  you  share  my  table?"  he  said,  effu- 
sively. "My  name's  Slocum,  and  I've  seen  you 
here  often.  You  mustn't  go  away.  Come  in." 

Andrew  gratefully  accepted,  and  followed  Mr. 
Slocum  over  to  the  little  table  on  the  other  side 
of  the  room. 

"I  say,"  said  Slocum,  after  Webb  had  ordered 
his  dinner,  "I've  hit  on  a  plan.  It's  been  in  my 
head  for  some  time.  How  often  do  you  come 
here?" 

"Once  a  month." 

"That's  my  game  exactly.  I'm  a  clerk  on  a 
small  salary ;  but  I  must  have  one  good  dinner  a 
month,  if  I  don't  have  my  hair  cut.  Now,  sup- 
pose we  dine  together.  One  portion's  enough 
for  two,  and  the  same  dinner  '11  only  cost  each  of 
us  half  what  it  does  now.  See?" 

Andrew  did  not  take  kindly  to  Mr.  Slocum: 
the  vulgar  young  man  was  so  different  from  the 

164 


The    Tragedy    of    a    Snob 

magnificent  creatures  about  him.  But  the  offer 
was  not  to  be  ignored,  and  he  closed  with  it. 
For  the  following  three  years,  until  he  was  twenty- 
eight,  he  dined  regularly  at  Delmonico's,  and  in 
that  rarefied  atmosphere  his  head  gently  swam. 
He  forgot  the  flat  in  Harlem, — forgot  that  he  was 
Andrew,  not  Schuyler  Churchill  Webb. 


Ill 

One  day  word  came  that  "  Uncle  Sandy  Arm- 
strong" was  dead.  Andrew  could  not  get  away, 
nor  Polly,  who  was  then  a  teacher;  but  Mrs. 
Webb  hastily  packed  an  old  carpet-bag  and  went 
over  to  superintend  her  brother's  funeral.  That 
evening  the  young  people  discussed  the  death  of 
their  relative  in  a  business-like  manner,  which 
their  mother  would  have  resented,  but  which 
was  justifiable  from  their  point  of  view. 

"I  suppose  ma  will  have  the  farm,"  remarked 
Polly,  still  a  plump,  rosy,  and  well-dressed 
Polly,  albeit  with  an  added  air  of  importance  and 
a  slightly  didactic  enunciation.  "  How  much  do 
you  suppose  it's  worth?" 

Andrew,  who  was  lying  on  the  sofa  smoking  a 
pipe,  protruded  his  upper  lip.     "  Four  thousand, 
— not  a  cent  more.    The  orchard's  all  gone  to 
seed,  and  the  house  too." 
12  165 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 

"We  might  mortgage  the  land,  and  fit  the 
house  up  for  summer  boarders." 

Andrew  frowned  heavily.  His  sister  was  ab- 
sently tapping  a  pile  of  compositions  on  the  table 
beside  her,  and  did  not  see  the  frown.  She 
would  not  have  suspected  the  cause  if  she  had. 

"As  well  that  as  anything,"  he  replied,  in- 
differently. "  No  one  will  buy  it,  that's  positive, 
with  all  that  marsh." 

Two  days  later  he  returned  home  to  find  the 
very  atmosphere  of  the  place  quivering  with  ex- 
citement. Bridget  stood  in  the  doorway  of  the 
kitchen,  which  faced  the  end  of  the  narrow  hall- 
way personal  to  the  Webb  abode.  Her  round 
eyes  glittered  in  a  purple  face.  She  waved  her 
alms  wildly. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Webb!"  she  began. 

"Andrew,  come  here,"  shrieked  Polly  from  the 
other  end  of  the  hall.  "Come  here,  quick!" 

It  was  not  Webb's  habit  to  move  rapidly;  but, 
fearing  that  his  mother  was  ill,  he  walked  briskly 
to  the  parlor.  Mrs.  Webb,  trembling  as  from  a 
recent  nervous  shock,  her  face  flushed,  a  legal 
document  in  her  lap,  sat  in  an  upright  chair,  ap- 
parently in  the  best  of  health.  Polly  was  on  the 
verge  of  hysterics. 

"  What  do  you  think  has  happened  ?"  she  cried. 
"Tell  him,  ma;  I  can't."  Then  she  flung  herself 

166 


The    Tragedy    of  a    Snob 

face  downward  on  the  sofa  and  kicked  her  heels 
together. 

"We  are  rich,  Andrew,"  said  Mrs.  Webb,  with 
a  desperate  effort  at  calmness.  "  Your  Uncle 
Sandy  has  been  investing  and  doubling  money 
these  twenty  years.  He  has  left  one  hundred 
and  fifty  thousand  dollars,  —  fifty  thousand  to 
each  of  us." 

Andrew's  knees  gave  way.  He  sat  down  sud- 
denly. He  had  but  one  thought.  A  radiant 
future  flashed  the  little  room  out  of  vision.  That 
would  be  his  which  for  five  years  he  had  desired 
with  all  the  insidious  force  of  a  fixed  idea. 

"Say  something,  Andrew,  for  heaven's  sake!" 
cried  Polly,  "or  I  shall  scream.  Fifty  thousand 
dollars  all  my  own!  No  more  school,  no  more 
dress-making!  We'll  all  go  to  Europe.  Ma  says 
it's  well  invested,  and  we  shall  have  four  thou- 
sand a  year  each.  Goodness — goodness — good- 
ness me!" 

"  I  should  like  to  fit  up  the  old  house  and  live 
there,"  said  Mrs.  Webb.  "But— yes— I  should 
like  to  see  Europe  first.  That  was  one  of  the 
dreams  of  my  youth." 

"And  I'll  have  a  sealskin!  At  last!  You 
shall  have  a  magnificent  black  silk  and  a  pair  of 
diamond  earrings— 

"Polly!"  exclaimed  her  mother,  "what  should 
167 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 

I  do  with  diamonds?  A  new  black  silk — a  rich 
one — yes,  I  shall  like  that.  Poor  Sandy!" 

Andrew  leaned  forward  and  took  the  docu- 
ment and  laid  it  on  his  knee.  He  stroked  it  as 
tenderly  as  if  it  had  been  a  woman's  head  and  he 
another  man.  There  was  no  sentiment  in  his 
nature,  although  he  was  an  admirer  of  beauty — 
New  York  beauty.  After  a  time  he  detached 
himself  from  his  thoughts  and  talked  the  matter 
over  with  his  mother  and  sister.  When  they 
asked  him  what  he  should  do  he  replied,  confused- 
ly, that  he  did  not  know.  But  the  plans  of  neither 
were  so  well  defined  as  his. 

All  that  night  he  sat  on  the  edge  of  his  bed 
staring  at  the  worn  outlines  of  the  boy  and  the 
dog  on  the  rug  under  his  feet.  Fifty  thousand 
dollars !  It  seemed  a  great  fortune  to  him.  Such 
a  sum  had  been  familiar  enough  in  figures  for 
many  years.  But  that  it  might  represent  a  con- 
crete wad  of  bills  was  a  fact  which  had  never  pre- 
sented itself  to  his  imagination  before.  Fifty 
thousand  dollars!  He  did  not  know  what  the 
objects  of  his  idolatry  were  worth,  merely  that 
they  were  idle  and  luxurious.  These  fifty  thou- 
sand dollars  would  enable  him  to  be  idle  and  lux- 
urious— and  to  meet  society  at  last  on  its  own 
ground. 


The    Tragedy    of  a    Snob 

IV 

The  interval  between  that  night  and  the  day 
upon  which  the  estate  was  settled,  Andrew  passed 
in  a  sort  of  impatient  dream.  Never  before  had 
days,  weeks,  months  seemed  so  long;  never  had 
he  so  dissociated  himself  from  his  little  world  and 
melted  into  that  luminous  circle  of  which  he  was 
to  become  a  component  part.  How  he  was  to 
obtain  his  passport  into  fashionable  society  was 
a  question  that  did  not  concern  him.  Its  portals 
were  typified  to  him  by  the  wide  gates  of  Central 
Park,  through  which  all  might  roll  upon  whom 
fortune  smiled.  One  blessed  fact  possessed  his 
mind :  by  the  first  of  July  he  should  be  master  of 
his  future,  liberated  from  his  desk,  free  to  go  to 
Newport.  When  his  foot  actually  pressed  that 
reservation,  all  the  rest  would  come  about  quite 
naturally.  At  this  time  he  still  preserved  his  self- 
respect.  He  felt  quite  the  equal  of  the  men  he 
had  brushed  elbows  with  at  Delmonico's — the 
pink-faced  youths  with  their  butter-colored  tops, 
the  affable  elderly  men  with  their  bulbous  stom- 
achs and  puffy  eyes.  And  he  had  caught  many 
of  their  little  fads.  He  had  risen  in  the  night, 
and  opening  the  door  connecting  the  kitchen  and 
dining-room,  that  he  might  have  sufficient  scope, 
he  had  practised  the  remarkable  gait  of  the  New 

169 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 

York  youth  of  fashion :  that  slight  forward  inclina- 
tion of  the  shoulders,  that  slighter  crab-like  angle 
of  the  body,  that  ponderous  thoughtful  tread: 
the  only  difference  from  the  walk  of  the  "  tough'* 
being  in  the  length  of  the  step.  One  hand  was  in 
a  pocket,  the  other  absently  manipulated  a  stick. 
He  had  also  witnessed  the  hand-shake,  and  of  his 
proficiency  in  this  accomplishment  he  felt  assured. 
On  the  third  day  of  July,  one  hour  after  the 
law  had  yielded  up  its  temporary  foundling,  he 
ordered  an  elaborate  outfit  from  the  most  fash- 
ionable tailor  in  New  York.  This  order  and 
others  drilled  a  large  hole  in  his  first  quarter's 
income,  but  he  regarded  that  as  a  trifling  detail. 
His  mother  and  sister  were  meanwhile  selling  the 
homely  necessities  of  their  flat  at  auction,  as  the 
first  step  to  a  year  abroad.  They  wondered  at 
Andrew's  desire  to  go  to  Newport,  but  had  heard 
that  it  was  a  pretty  place  with  a  good  bathing- 
beach,  and  much  visited  by  tourists.  They 
spent  the  last  night  together  in  a  hotel;  and 
Mrs.  Webb,  in  spite  of  a  faint  protest  from  An- 
drew, ordered  beer  and  crackers  and  cheese. 
They  had  eaten  this  little  supper  for  many 
years,  and  the  women,  who  were  very  tearful, 
insisted  that  this  last  evening  together  must  be 
as  much  like  the  dear  old  evenings  as  possible. 
It  was  a  sad  meal. 

170  • 


The    Tragedy    of  a    Snob 

V 

It  was  a  profoundly  hot  August  day  when  An- 
drew left  the  steamboat  and  actually  stood  upon 
Newport  soil.  More  properly,  he  stood  upon  a 
plank  wharf,  and  was  not  impressed  with  the 
dock.  But  as  the  omnibus  rolled  through  the 
town  his  heart  began  to  swell,  his  rather  dull  eyes 
to  glow.  The  hour  was  two,  and  the  city  asleep 
under  its  ivy  and  flowers.  After  New  York,  it 
seemed  deliciously  quiet,  and  old,  and  aristocratic. 
The  pounding  of  the  horses'  hoofs,  the  voices  of 
the  people  in  the  omnibus,  were  desecrating.  He 
had  glimpses  of  long  avenues,  dark,  green,  dim ;  a 
flash  of  villa  top  or  imposing  gateway  behind  the 
stately  trees.  He  felt  that  he  was  in  paradise. 

He  was  in  a  mood  to  admire  the  hotel,  plain 
and  unpretending  structure  as  it  was ;  it  was  so 
old  and  still  and  highly  respectable.  He  de- 
scended from  the  omnibus  nervously  and  went 
into  the  office.  A  clerk  handed  him  a  pen,  and 
he  registered  his  name  in  a  clerkly  hand,  "  A.  Arm- 
strong Webb."  He  had  decided  to  acknowledge 
his  debt  to  his  uncle  and  add  a  cubit  to  his  stature 
at  the  same  time.  The  clerk  wheeled  the  book 
round,  glanced  indifferently  at  the  name,  and 
handed  a  key  to  a  bell-boy.  Webb,  conscious  of 
a  faint  chill,  followed  the  boy  up-stairs.  The 

171 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 

room  to  which  he  was  conducted  was  an  ordinary 
one  overlooking  the  area.  He  had  been  treated 
as  any  commonplace  and  unknown  traveller 
would  be.  The  thought  increased  the  chill ;  then 
he  philosophically  concluded  that  a  nobleman 
travelling  incognito  would  be  treated  in  the  same 
way,  and  went  down-stairs  to  the  dining-room. 
There  he  was  somewhat  surprised  to  find  that 
dinner  was  being  served  instead  of  luncheon. 
He  had  supposed  that  dinner  in  a  Newport  hotel 
would  be  served  at  eight  o'clock. 

After  dinner  he  went  out  to  the  veranda,  sat 
himself  on  one  of  the  chairs  by  the  railing,  and 
smoked  an  expensive  cigar.  He  was  beginning 
to  feel  strangely  lonely.  There  seemed  to  be  very 
few  people  in  the  hotel,  and  he  experienced  his 
first  pang  of  helplessness,  of  doubt.  He  had 
supposed  that  the  hotel  would  be  full  of  great 
people.  As  he  glanced  down  the  avenue,  those 
big  houses  seemed  like  tombs,  buried,  themselves, 
under  a  rank  growth  of  foliage.  And  it  was  so 
wondrous  quiet! 

His  cigar  cheered  him  somewhat,  and  he  saun- 
tered back  to  the  office  and  entered  into  conversa- 
tion with  the  clerk,  a  good-humored  little  Eng- 
lishman with  cheeks  like  his  own  apples.  The 
clerk  knew  at  a  glance  that  the  stranger  was 
neither  a  "swell"  nor  a  frequenter  of  Newport; 

172 


The    Tragedy    of  a    Snob 

but  he  liked  his  manly  appearance,  and  readily 
met  his  advances.  To  his  dismay,  Webb  learned 
that  the  "swells"  no  longer  went  to  the  hotels; 
or,  if  obliged  to  do  so  for  a  short  period,  secluded 
themselves  in  their  rooms.  They  lived  in  cot- 
tages. Oh  yes!  all  those  fine  houses  were  called 
cottages.  It  was  a  sort  of  fad — American  mod- 
esty, the  clerk  supposed.  There  was  not  much 
run  of  any  sort  at  the  hotel  until  the  fifteenth, 
when  a  good  many  tourists  came.  Oh  yes !  there 
were  some  people  there,  mostly  old  ones,  who 
had  come  every  season  for  many  years,  he  be- 
lieved. Rather  depressing  parties,  these;  they 
looked  so  old-fashioned,  and  didn't  do  much  to 
brighten  up  things. 

Webb,  with  growing  dejection,  left  the  hotel 
and  strolled  up  the  avenue.  There  his  spirits 
revived.  The  avenue  was  so  beautiful,  so  gloomy, 
so  old!  He  drew  in  deep  inhalations  of  its  un- 
mistakably aristocratic  atmosphere.  He  felt  its 
subtle  possessing  influence.  Once  more  his  im- 
agination awakened.  He  leaned  on  a  Gothic 
gateway  and  gazed  upon  a  superb  Queen  Anne 
cottage  with  Tudor  towers.  Incongruities  in 
architecture  mattered  nothing  to  him.  He  pre- 
cipitated his  astral  part  through  the  massive 
door  and  wandered,  with  ponderous,  thoughtful 
tread,  over  the  deep  carpets  of  the  drawing- 


The    Bell    in   the    Fog 

rooms  and  corridors.  He  drank  tea  on  the  back 
veranda  with  languid  dames  and  with  men  who 
had  never  stood  at  desks.  He  threw  himself 
into  an  arm-chair  and  listened  to  a  slim-waisted 
smooth-haired  girl  coquetting  with  the  piano. 
He  sat  with  the  haughty  chatelaine  and  talked  of 
—there  his  imagination  failed  him.  He  hardly 
knew  what  these  people  talked  of,  although  he 
had  read  many  society  novels.  As  far  as  his 
memory  served  him,  they  talked  of  nothing  in 
particular.  He  wandered  down  the  avenue, 
dreaming  his  dream  at  many  gate-posts.  He 
saw  no  one,  but  thereby  was  the  illusion  deepened. 
Newport  for  the  hour  was  his. 

He  returned  to  the  hotel  veranda,  lit  another 
cigar,  and  was  about  to  meditate  upon  some  plan 
of  campaign,  when  suddenly  an  odd  and  delight- 
ful thing  happened.  It  was  four-and-thirty  of  the 
clock.  As  if  to  the  ringing  of  a  bell  and  the  rising 
of  a  curtain,  Bellevue  Avenue  became  suddenly 
alive  with  carriages.  The  big  gates  seemed  to 
yawn  simultaneously  and  discharge  their  ex- 
pensive freight.  It  was  as  if  these  actors  in  the 
Newport  drama  would  lose  their  weekly  salary 
did  they  step  on  the  boards  a  moment  too  late. 
The  avenue,  with  its  gay  frocks  and  parasols,  was 
like  a  long  flower-bed  in  spring.  Webb 's  cigar  went 
out.  He  leaned  forward  eagerly,  straining  his  eyes. 

174 


The    Tragedy    of  a    Snob 

In  some  of  the  superb  traps  were  decrepit  old 
dowagers  wagging  their  feeble  heads,  wondering, 
perhaps,  how  much  longer  their  millions  would 
keep  them  alive.  Sometimes  their  young  heirs 
were  with  them,  patient  and  placid.  Others  were 
pitifully  alone.  Several  men  were  on  horseback, 
riding  in  the  agonized  fashion  of  the  day.  There 
were  carriages  full  of  girls  with  complexions  of 
ivory  and  claret,  air  of  ineffable  daintiness.  Now 
and  then  a  victoria  would  roll  by  in  which  women 
lolled,  heavily  veiled  with  crape.  Webb  won- 
dered if  they  really  could  sorrow  like  common 
folks.  Mingling  with  the  superb  turnouts  were 
barouches  unmistakably  hired,  occupied  by  peo- 
ple dressed  with  a  certain  cheap  smartness.  Here 
and  there  a  girl,  probably  of  the  people,  cantered 
half  defiantly  down  the  line,  a  sailor-hat  on  her 
head,  her  jacket  open  over  a  shirt  and  "  four-in- 
hand."  Once  a  yoke  of  oxen,  driven  by  a  bare- 
headed maid,  straggled  into  the  throng. 

The  avenue  before  the  hotel  became  deserted 
once  more.  The  upper  end  was  blocked  with 
carriages,  all  apparently  bent  in  the  same  direc- 
tion. Andrew  ran  down  the  steps,  half  inclined 
to  follow,  half  fearing  they  would  never  return. 
A  number  of  open  hacks  stood  before  the  hotel. 
A  driver  immediately  approached  Andrew. 

"Like  a  drive,  sir?" 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 

"  Yes,"  said  Webb.  "  Go  where  the  others  are 
going." 

"Certainly,  sir.  And,  if  you  be  a  stranger,  I 
can  tell  you  most  of  the  names." 

Andrew  could  have  tipped  him  on  the  spot. 
He  should  be  able  to  identify  those  people  at 
last!  He  felt  that  he  had  advanced  another 
step! 

"We'll  drive  slow  and  meet  them  on  their  re- 
turn," said  the  driver.  He  indicated  with  a  gest- 
ure of  contempt  a  passing  carriage. 

"You  see  them,  sir?  They  be  people  that 
comes  to  the  hotels  and  goes  away  and  talks  about 
spending  the  summer  in  Newport.  But  any  one 
could  tell  that  they're  just  hotel  people,  and  that 
the  hack  is  hired.  They  don't  deceive  nobody 
here." 

The  words  gave  Andrew  a  hint  for  which  he 
was  thankful.  He  understood  that  he  must  not 
stay  at  the  hotel.  Where  should  he  go,  however  ? 
He  must  take  a  "cottage,"  he  supposed. 

They  rolled  down  a  thick-leaved  avenue  and 
out  over  the  stubby  sand-hills  by  the  sea.  Here 
and  there  a  large  mansion  crowned  the  heights, 
and  Andrew  was  glad  to  see  the  traditional  cot- 
tage in  full  relief.  He  paid  it  scant  attention, 
however.  The  procession  of  carriages  had  already 
turned,  and  his  faithful  guide  uttered  many  a 

176 


The    Tragedy    of  a    Snob 

name  which  sounded  like  old  sweet  music  in  his 
ears.  Some  of  the  younger  faces  were  unfamiliar ; 
but  they,  too,  bore  names  that  the  newspapers 
had  made  famous. 

"  Now  look  with  all  your  eyes,"  cried  the  driver, 
suddenly.  "  Here's  Mrs.  Johnny  Belhaven.  She's 
worth  more  millions  than  all  the  rest  put  to- 
gether, and  is  an  A i  whip." 

A  plump  but  distinguished-looking  woman  bore 
down  on  them  in  what  appeared  to  be  a  chariot. 
Andrew  had  never  seen  anything  so  high  on 
wheels  before.  Mrs.  Belhaven  looked  down  upon 
her  "  Order"  as  from  a  throne,  and  wore  a  slightly 
supercilious  expression. 

"And  there's  Ward  McAllister,"  continued  the 
driver,  excitedly;  "him  as  is  the  leader  of  the 
Four  Hundred,  you  know." 

Andrew  almost  raised  himself  from  his  seat. 
He  stared  with  bulging  eyes  at  the  tired  carelessly 
dressed  elderly  man  with  whom  he  had  been  inti- 
mate so  many  years. 

He  returned  to  the  hotel.  His  spirits  were 
normal  again.  He  had  taken  his  part  in  a  frag- 
ment of  the  daily  life  of  Newport.  As  he  passed 
through  the  office  on  his  way  to  the  elevator,  the 
clerk  beckoned  to  him. 

"As  you  seem  a  stranger,  sir,"  he  said,  apolo- 
getically, "I  thought  I  would  introduce  you  to 

177 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 

Mr.  Chapman.  He's  the  correspondent  of  sev- 
eral New  York  papers,  and  could  tell  you  how  to 
amuse  yourself." 

A  short  thick-set  amiable  young  man  shook 
Andrew's  hand  heartily.  Mr.  Chapman  was  not 
the  sort  of  person  Andrew  had  gone  to  Newport 
to  meet,  but  he  was  glad  of  any  friendship,  tem- 
porarily. 

The  two  young  men  went  out  to  the  veranda. 
Andrew  proffered  his  new  cigar-case.  The  other 
accepted  gratefully.  He  was  the  free-lance  cor- 
respondent of  several  New  York  weekly  papers, 
and  his  salary  was  not  large.  He  tipped  his  chair 
back,  put  his  feet  on  the  railing,  and  confided  to 
Webb  that  he  hated  Newport. 

"I  wouldn't  have  come  here  this  summer  if  I 
could  have  got  out  of  it,"  he  said,  gloomily.  "  It's 
my  third  year,  and  the  place  gets  worse  every 
season.  These  people  are  so  stuck-up  there's 
no  approaching  them  for  news.  Even  Lancaster, 
who  has  a  sort  of  entree  because  he  is  connected 
with  a  swagger  family,  admits  that  it's  as  much 
as  his  life  is  worth  to  get  anything  out  of  them. 
He's  the  correspondent  of  the  New  York  Eye. 
What's  worse,  they  don't  do  anything.  Here  it 
is  the  third  of  August,  and  not  a  ball  has  been 
given — just  little  things  among  themselves  that 
you  can't  get  at.  It's  enough  to  drive  a  fellow 


The    Tragedy   of  a    Snob 

to  drink.  I've  faked  till  my  poor  imagination  is 
worn  to  a  thread;  the  papers  have  to  have  news. 
But  I've  done  one  big  thing  this  summer, — a 
corking  beat.  Did  you  notice  half-way  down  the 
avenue  a  new  house  surrounded  by  a  big  stone 
wall?  That's  the  new  Belhaven  house.  They'd 
sworn  that  no  reporter  should  so  much  as  pass 
the  gates,  no  paper  should  ever  show  an  eager 
world  the  interior  of  that  marble  mausoleum. 
The  newspapers  were  wild.  Even  Lancaster 
had  no  show.  I  was  bound  that  I'd  get  into 
that  house,  if  I  had  to  go  as  a  burglar.  And  I 
did,  but  not  that  way.  I  bribed  their  butcher 
to  let  me  dress  up  as  his  boy ;  took  a  camera,  and 
photographed  the  house  and  grounds  from  the 
seclusion  of  the  meat-wagon.  I  flirted  with  the 
cook  and  got  her  to  show  me  the  drawing-rooms. 
It  was  early,  and  the  family  wasn't  up.  I  dodged 
the  butler  and  took  snap-shots.  The  other  news- 
paper men  were  ready  to  brain  me.  I  felt  sorry 
for  some  of  them,  but  I  had  joy  over  Lancaster. 
He'd  bribed  the  caterer  and  florist  to  keep  their 
best  bits  of  news  for  him.  A  low  trick  that ;  not 
but  what  I'd  do  it  myself  if  I  had  his  salary.  He 
got  a  scoop  last  year,  and  you  couldn't  speak  to 
him  for  a  month  after.  Mrs.  Foster, — she's  one 
of  the  biggest  guns,  you  know,  a  regular  cannon, — 
refurnished  her  house  last  summer,  and  all  the 

179 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 

New  York  papers  wanted  photographs.  She 
went  cranky,  and  said  they  shouldn't  have  them. 
Wouldn't  even  listen  to  Lancaster's  pleadings. 
But  he  hadn't  jollied  the  butler  for  nothing.  She 
didn't  stop  here  last  summer — only  came  down 
every  two  weeks  and  rearranged  every  stick  of 
the  furniture.  The  butler  was  nearly  distracted. 
It  was  as  much  as  his  place  was  worth  to  have 
her  find  any  of  the  chairs  out  of  place,  and  the 
rooms  had  to  be  swept.  So  he  hit  on  a  plan. 
He  bought  a  camera  and  photographed  the  rooms 
every  time  Mrs.  Foster  came  down.  One  day 
he  met  Lancaster  on  the  avenue  and  confided  his 
method  of  keeping  up  with  the  old  lady.  You 
may  be  sure  Lancaster  was  not  long  getting  a  set 
of  those  photos.  It  cost  the  newspaper  a  pot  of 
money,  for  the  butler  was  no  fool.  But  there 
they  were  next  Sunday.  And  Mrs.  Foster  doesn't 
know  to  this  day  how  it  was  done." 

Webb  listened  with  mingled  amusement  and 
dismay.  He  was  slowly  beginning  to  realize  the 
determined  segregation,  from  the  common  herd, 
of  these  people,  to  whom  he  had  come  so  confi- 
dently to  offer  homage.  He  changed  the  sub- 
ject. 

"I  don't  want  to  stay  here,  don't  you  know," 
he  said,  glancing  scornfully  over  his  shoulder  at 
the  hotel  which  in  its  day  had  housed  the  most 

1 80 


The    Tragedy    of  a    Snob 

distinguished  in  the  land.  ''What  would  you 
advise?  Take  a  cottage?" 

"Take  a  cottage!"  Mr.  Chapman  fairly  gasped. 
"Are  you  a  millionaire  in  disguise  ?  If  you  were, 
I  don't  believe  you  could  get  one.  The  swells 
shut  up  theirs  when  they  don't  come,  or  let  them 
to  their  friends.  The  others  are  mostly  taken 
year  after  year  by  the  same  people.  No;  I'll  tell 
you  what  you  want — a  bachelor's  apartment. 
They  are  not  so  easy  to  get  either,  but  I  happen 
to  know  of  one.  It  was  rented  four  years  ago  by 
Jack  Delancy,  but  he  blew  in  most  of  his  money, 
and  then  tried  to  recuperate  on  cordage.  The 
bottom  fell  out  of  that,  and  now  goodness  knows 
where  he  is.  At  all  events,  his  apartment  is  to 
let.  Suppose  we  go  now  and  see  it.  There's  no 
time  to  lose." 

Andrew  assented  willingly,  profoundly  thank- 
ful that  he  had  met  Mr.  Chapman.  The  apart- 
ment was  near  the  hotel.  They  found  it  still 
vacant,  furnished  with  a  certain  bold  distinction. 
The  rent  was  high,  but  Andrew  stifled  the  eco- 
nomic promptings  of  his  nature,  and  manfully 
signed  a  check.  That  night  there  was  nothing 
to  be  seen  in  Newport,  not  even  a  moon.  The 
city  was  like  a  necropolis.  Andrew  gratefully 
employed  his  leisure  hunting  for  servants.  The 
following  day  he  was  comfortably  installed  and 

13  l8l 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 

had  invited  the  fortunate  Mr.  Chapman  to  dinner. 
He  found  that  gentleman  next  morning  on  the 
beach,  taking  snap-shots  at  the  bathers. 

"This  sort  of  thing  goes,"  Chapman  said,  "al- 
though these  people  are  just  plain  tourists.  I 
label  them  'the  beautiful  Miss  Brown/  or  'the 
famous  Miss  Jones,'  and  the  average  reader  swal- 
lows it,  to  say  nothing  of  the  fact  that  it  makes 
the  paper  look  well.  The  swells  won't  go  in  with 
the  common  herd,  and  want  the  ocean  fenced  in 
too,  as  it  were.  There  are  some  of  them  over 
there  in  their  carriages,  taking  a  languid  interest 
in  the  scene  because  they've  nothing  better  to 
do.  But  they'd  no  more  think  of  getting  out  and 
sitting  on  this  balcony,  as  they  do  at  Narragan- 
sett,  than  they'd  ride  in  a  street  -  car.  Want  to 
go  up  to  the  Casino  and  see  the  stage  go  off? 
That's  one  of  the  sights." 

Andrew  had  spent  a  half -hour  the  evening  be- 
fore gazing  at  the  graceful  brown  building  which 
had  long  been  a  part  of  his  dreams.  He  wel- 
comed the  prospect  of  seeing  a-  phase  of  its  brill- 
iant life. 

They  reached  the  Casino  a  few  minutes  before 
the  coach  started.  A  large  round-shouldered 
man,  with  face  and  frame  of  phlegmatic  mould, 
occupied  the  seat  and  swung  his  whip  with  a  bored 
and  absent  air.  Two  or  three  girls,  clad  in  apo- 

182 


The    Tragedy   of  a    Snob 

theosized  organdie,  and  close  hats,  were  already 
on  top  of  the  coach.  An  elderly  beau  was  assid- 
uously attending  upon  a  young  woman  who  was 
about  to  mount  the  ladder.  She  was  a  plain  girl, 
with  an  air  of  refined  health,  and  simply  clad  in 
white. 

"  She's  worth  sixteen  million  dollars  in  her  own 
right,"  said  Chapman,  with  a  groan. 

On  the  sidewalk,  between  the  Casino  and  the 
coach,  were  two  groups  of  girls.  One  group 
gazed  up  at  their  friends  on  the  coach,  wishing 
them  good-fortune ;  the  other  gazed  upon  the  first, 
eagerly  and  enviously.  Andrew  looked  from  one 
to  the  other.  The  girls  who  talked  to  those  on 
the  coach  wore  organdie  frocks  of  simple  but 
marvellous  construction.  Shading  their  young 
pellucid  eyes,  their  bare  polished  brows,  were 
large  Leghorn  hats  covered  with  expensive  feath- 
ers or  flowers.  Air,  carriage,  complexion,  man- 
ner, each  was  a  part  of  the  unmistakable  uniform 
of  the  New  York  girl  of  fashion.  But  the  others  ? 
Andrew  put  the  question  to  Chapman. 

"Oh,  they're  natives.  We  call  them  that  to 
distinguish  them  from  the  cottagers.  They  get 
close  whenever  they  get  a  chance,  and  copy  the 
cottagers'  clothes  and  manners.  But  it  doesn't 
take  a  magnifying-glass  to  see  the  difference." 

Andrew  looked  with  a  pity  he  did  not  admit  was 
183 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 

fellow-feeling  at  the  pretty  girls  with  their  bright 
complexions,  their  merely  stylish  clothes — which 
reminded  him  of  Polly's — the  inferior  feathers  in 
their  chip  hats.  The  sharp  contrast  between  the 
two  groups  of  girls  was  almost  painful. 

"I've  got  to  leave  you,"  said  Chapman;  "but 
I'll  see  you  later.  Take  care  of  yourself." 

The  horn  tooted,  the  whip  cracked,  the  coach 
started.  The  men  on  the  club  balcony  above  the 
Casino  watched  it  lazily.  The  street  between 
the  coach  and  the  green  wall  opposite  had  been 
blocked  with  carriages  that  now  rolled  away. 

Webb  turned  his  attention  to  the  group  of  cot- 
tagers. One  of  the  girls  wore  a  yellow  organdie 
trimmed  with  black  velvet  ribbons,  a  large  Leg- 
horn covered  with  yellow  feathers  and  black  vel- 
vet. She  was  not  pretty,  but  she  had  "an  air," 
and  that  was  supremest  beauty  in  Andrew's  eyes. 
Another  was  in  lilac,  another  in  pink.  Each  had 
the  same  sleek  brown  hair,  the  same  ivory  com- 
plexion. In  attendance  was  a  tall  clumsily  built 
but  very  imposing  young  man  with  sleepy  blue 
eyes  and  a  mighty  mustache.  The  girls  paid  him 
marked  attention. 

They  chatted  for  a  few  moments,  then  walked 
through  the  entrance  of  the  Casino,  over  the 
lawn,  towards  the  lower  balcony  of  the  horseshoe 
surrounding  it.  Andrew  followed,  fascinated. 

184 


The    Tragedy    of  a    Snob 

The  young  man  in  attendance  walked  after  the 
manner  of  his  kind,  and  Andrew,  unconsciously 
imitating  him,  ascended  the  steps,  seated  himself 
with  an  air  of  elaborate  indifference  opposite  the 
party  in  the  narrow  semicircle,  and  composed  his 
face  into  an  expression  of  blank  abstraction. 
His  trouble  was  wasted:  they  did  not  see  him. 
They  had  an  air  of  seeing  no  one  in  the  world  but 
their  kind.  One  of  the  girls,  to  Andrew's  horror, 
crossed  her  knees  and  swung  her  foot  airily.  The 
young  man  sank  into  a  slouching  position.  An- 
other girl  joined  the  group,  but  he  did  not  rise 
when  introduced,  nor  offer  to  get  her  a  chair. 
She  was  obliged  to  perform  that  office,  at  some 
difficulty,  for  herself. 

The  band  began  to  play.  Andrew  leaned  for- 
ward, gazing  at  the  floor,  intent  upon  hearing 
these  people  actually  converse.  But  their  talk 
only  came  to  him  in  snatches  between  the  rise 
and  fall  of  the  music.  Like  many  other  New- 
Yorkers,  he  had  a  deaf  ear. 

"My  things  disappear  so" — (from  the  yellow 
girl)  .  .  .  "  I  suspect  my  maid  wears  them.  .  .  . 
Don't  really  know  what  I  have.  .  .  .  Don't  dare 
say  anything."  This  was  said  with  a  languid 
drawl  which  Andrew  thought  delicious. 

All  laughed. 

"Shall  you  go  to  Paris  this  year?" 
185 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 

"  I  don't  know  .  .  .  till  time  comes.  .  .  .  Then 
we  keep  four  servants  up  all  night  packing.  .  .  . 
Must  have  some  new  gowns.  .  .  .  You  know  how 
you  have  to  talk  to  Ducet  and  Paquin  yourself." 

The  young  man  went  to  sleep.  The  girls  put 
their  heads  together  and  whispered.  After  a 
time  they  arose  with  a  little  capricious  air,  which 
completed  Andrew's  subjugation,  and  strolled 
away. 


VI 


That  evening,  as  he  sat  with  Chapman  over  the 
coffee  in  the  stately  little  dining-room  of  the  vic- 
tim of  cordage,  the  journalist  remarked  suddenly : 

"  I  say,  old  fellow,  you  don't  seem  to  be  in  it. 
Don't  you  know  anybody  here  at  all?" 

Andrew  shook  his  head  gloomily. 

"Well,  you'll  have 'a  stupid  time,  I'm  afraid. 
There  are  only  three  classes  of  people  that  come 
to  Newport — the  swells,  the  people  who  want  to 
see  the  swells,  and  the  correspondents  whose  un- 
happy fate  it  is  to  report  the  doings  of  the  swells. 
Now,  what  on  earth  did  you  come  here  for?" 

Andrew  had  not  a  confiding  nature,  but  he 
could  not  repress  a  dark  flush.  The  astute  little 
journalist  understood  it. 

"  It's  too  bad  you  didn't  bring  a  letter  or  two. 
186 


The    Tragedy    of  a    Snob 

One  would  have  made  it  easy  work.  You  look 
as  well  as  any  of  them,  and  you've  got  the  boodle. 
Where  did  you  come  from,  anyway?" 

"  New  York." 

Chapman  puckered  his  lips  about  his  cigar. 
"  That's  bad.  It's  harder  for  a  non-commission- 
ed New-Yorker  to  get  into  society  than  for  a 
district-attorney  to  get  into  heaven.  Didn't  you 
make  any  swagger  friends  at  college?" 

"I  never  went  to  college." 

"Too  bad!  A  man  should  always  strain  a 
point  to  get  to  college.  If  he's  clever  he  can 
make  friends  there  that  he  can  'work'  for  the  rest 
of  his  life." 

Little  by  little,  with  adroit  use  of  the  detective 
faculty  of  the  modern  reporter,  he  extracted  from 
Webb  the  tale  of  his  years — even  the  extent  of 
his  fortune.  The  young  aspirant's  ingenuous- 
ness made  him  gasp  more  than  once ;  but  he  had 
too  kindly  a  nature  to  state  to  Webb  the  hope- 
lessness of  his  case.  His  new  friend  was  manly 
and  generous,  and  had  won  from  him  a  sincere 
liking,  tempered  with  pity.  Better  let  him  find 
out  for  himself  how  things  stood;  then,  when  his 
eyes  were  open,  steer  him  out  of  his  difficulties. 

He  rose  in  a  few  moments.  "Well,"  he  said, 
cheerily,  "  I  wish  I  were  Lancaster.  I  might  be 
able  to  do  something  for  you :  but  I  'm  not  in  it — 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 

not  for  a  cent.  You  may  as  well  take  in  the 
passing  show,  however.  The  first  Casino  hop  is 
on  to-night.  Put  on  your  togs  and  go." 

"Anybody  there?"  asked  Andrew,  loftily. 

"Oh,  rather.  All  the  cottagers  will  be  there, 
or  a  goodly  number  of  them.  And  it's  a  pretty 
sight." 

"But  how  can  I  get  in?" 

"By  paying  the  sum  of  one  dollar,  old  man." 

Andrew's  cigar  dropped  from  his  mouth. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  they  go  to  a  place  and 
dance — in  full  dress — on  the  floor — with  every- 
body? Why,  any  one  can  pay  a  dollar." 

Chapman  laughed.  "Oh! — well — go  and  see 
how  it  is  for  yourself.  Meet  me  in  the  gallery  at 
ten,  and  I'll  tell  you  who's  who.  Au  revoir" 

At  half -past  nine  Andrew  stood  before  his  mir- 
ror and  regarded  himself  meditatively.  Without 
vanity,  he  could  admit  that  so  far  as  appearance 
counted  he  would  be  an  ornament  to  any  ball- 
room. His  strong  young  figure  carried  its  even- 
ing clothes  with  the  air  of  a  gentleman,  not  of  a 
waiter.  He  had  seen  fashionable  men  in  Del- 
monico's  who  needed  their  facial  tresses  to  avoid 
confusion.  Chapman  had  that  day  pointed  out 
to  him  two  scions  of  distinguished  name  whose 
"sideboards"  had  caused  him  to  mistake  them 

1 88 


The    Tragedy   of  a    Snob 

for  coachmen.  He  stroked  his  own  mustache. 
It  had  never  been  cut,  and  was  as  silken  as  the 
hair  of  the  ladies  he  worshipped.  His  head  had 
been  cropped  by  the  most  fashionable  barber  in 
New  York.  He  wore  no  jewels.  In  a  word,  he 
was  correct,  and  he  assured  himself  of  the  fact 
with  proud  humility.  Nevertheless,  his  heart 
was  heavy  behind  his  irreproachable  waistcoat. 

From  his  apartment  it  was  but  a  few  steps  to 
the  Casino.  He  walked  there  without  injury  to 
his  pumps,  bought  his  ticket  at  the  office,  half 
fearing  that  it  would  be  refused  him,  and  saun- 
tered across  the  lawn  to  the  inner  door  of  the  ball- 
room. The  horseshoe  was  brilliantly  lighted,  and, 
with  its  airy  architecture,  looked  as  if  awaiting  a 
revel  of  the  fairies.  The  cottagers,  Andrew 
understood,  would  alight  at  an  outside  door. 
They  were  subscribers,  and  the  office  was  not  for 
them. 

He  went  up  to  the  gallery  to  await  his  friend. 
It  was  less  than  a  fourth  occupied  by  pretty  girls 
— ''natives,"  he  recognized  at  once.  Some  wore 
hats,  others  were  in  local  substitute  for  full  dress — 
a  muslin  or  Indian  silk  turned  away  at  the  throat, 
a  flower  in  the  hair.  He  took  a  chair  before  the 
railing.  The  one  beside  him  was  occupied  by  a 
handsome  dark-eyed  girl  who  had  made  a  brave 
attempt  to  be  smart.  She  wore  a  red  silk  frock 

189 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 

and  a  red  rose  in  her  rough  abundant  hair.  Round 
her  white  throat  she  had  gracefully  arranged  some 
silk  lace.  Andrew  paid  that  tribute  to  her 
charms  of  one  whose  eyes  have  been  too  long  ac- 
customed to  great  works  of  art  to  take  any  interest 
in  the  chromo.  Nevertheless,  he  was  young  and 
she  was  young.  They  flirted  mildly  until  Chap- 
man came  in  and  introduced  them. 

"Miss  Leslie  is  an  old  friend  of  mine,  Webb/' 
he  said  in  his  hearty  way.  "I  hope  you  will  be 
friends  too." 

Miss  Leslie  bowed  and  beamed  and  flashed  her 
pretty  teeth.  >  Andrew  made  some  vague  re- 
mark, wondering  at  the  spite  of  fate,  then  forgot 
her  utterly.  Chapman  had  whispered  to  him 
that  the  cottagers  were  coming. 

He  leaned  eagerly  over  the  rail.  A  number  of 
buxom  dames,  accompanied  by  slender  girls, 
were  filing  in.  Some  of  the  old  women  were  in 
white  satin,  with  many  jewels  on  their  platitu- 
dinous bosoms.  The  slim  sisterhood,  with  their 
deerlike  movements,  their  curried  hair  arranged 
to  simulate  a  walnut  on  the  crown  of  their  little 
heads,  their  tiny  waists  and  white  necks  and  arms, 
riveted  Andrew's  gaze  as  ever.  Some  looked  like 
Easter  lilies  in  their  pure  white  gowns,  others  like 
delicate  orchids.  One  beautiful  young  woman, 
evidently  a  matron,  wore  a  gown  of  black  gauze, 

190 


The   Tragedy    of   a    Snob 

with  a  row  of  sparkling  crescents,  stars,  and  clus- 
ters, about  the  low  line  of  the  corsage. 

" Isn't  she  lovely?"  whispered  Miss  Leslie. 
11  She  got  a  French  Duke.  But  she  deserved  her 
luck.  She's  sweet." 

All  were  very  dtcolletie. 

11  Reminds , one  of  the  days  when  slaves  were 
put  up  on  sale  at  the  mart,  not  far  from  this  very 
spot,"  murmured  Chapman. 

One  sprightly  matron  entered  with  an  imperi- 
ous air,  and  was  immediately  surrounded. 

"Who's  she?"  inquired  Andrew,  scornfully. 
"Why,  her  frock  and  gloves  are  soiled,  and  her 
hair's  dyed." 

"Oh,  she's  out  of  sight,  my  boy!  Once  in  a 
while  they  do  look  like  that.  She's  going  to  lead 
things  this  summer.  Wish  she'd  hurry  up!" 
Then  he  named  a  number  of  people  to  Webb. 

The  band  on  the  platform  facing  the  triple  row 
of  seats  at  the  far  end  began  a  waltz.  Most  of 
the  men  were  elderly  and  well  preserved.  They 
danced  with  the  girls.  The  half-dozen  youths 
improved  their  chances  by  assiduous  attentions 
to  the  unwieldy  dames.  Andrew  thought  that 
his  princesses  danced  very  badly.  Many  of  them 
were  taller  than  the  men,  and  looked  about  to 
go  head  first  over  the  shoulders  whose  support 
they  seemed  to  disdain.  The  little  ones  bounded 

191 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 

like  rubber  balls.  The  old  women  formed  groups 
and  gossiped.  A  number  sat  about  a  plethoric 
lady,  whose  diamonds  made  her  look  like  a  crystal 
chandelier.  Chapman  informed  Webb  that  she 
was  a  duchess. 

"  You  see  that  fellow  over  there !"  he  exclaimed, 
suddenly,  indicating  with  the  point  of  his  lead- 
pencil  a  young  man  with  a  vulgar,  vacuous  face 
and  a  clumsy  assumption  of  the  grand  air ;  "well, 
he  was  nobody  a  year  ago, — a  distant  connection 
of  the  Webbs ;  but  they  never  recognized  his  ex- 
istence until  he  came  into  some  money.  Then 
they  took  him  up,  and  now  he's  out  of  sight.  It's 
too  bad  you  didn't  happen  to  be  that  kind  of 
Webb.  You  look  a  long  sight  more  of  a  gentle- 
man than  he  does." 

"Are  any  of  the  Webbs  here?"  asked  Andrew, 
choking  with  bitterness. 

"There's  the  old  girl  over  there.  Regular  old 
ice-chest." 

" Is— is— Schuyler  Churchill  Webb  here?" 

"  He's  just  come  in.  He  is  talking  to  the  duch- 
ess— the  French  one." 

Andrew  gazed  with  dull  hatred  at  the  plain 
amiable-looking  young  man,  whose  air  of  indefin- 
able elegance  seemed  to  reach  forth  and  smite 
him  in  the  face.  The  gulf,  which  had  been  a 
gradually  widening  rift,  seemed  suddenly  to  yawn. 

192 


The    Tragedy    of  a    Snob 

"Well,  I  must  go,"  said  Chapman.  "I  have 
to  get  my  stuff  off,  you  know.  Will  see  you  in  the 
morning." 

As  he  left,  Miss  Leslie  renewed  her  pleasantries, 
hoping  that  Andrew  would  ask  her  to  go  down 
and  dance.  She  was  terribly  afraid  of  the  great 
folk,  poor  little  soul,  but  she  felt  that  this  strong 
self-reliant  young  man  would  protect  her.  An- 
drew excused  himself  in  a  few  moments,  how- 
ever, and  went  down-stairs.  He  had  bought  the 
right  to  be  in  the  same  room  with  those  people, 
and  he  would  claim  it. 

The  treble  row  of  seats  was  evidently  reserved 
for  strangers ;  no  cottagers  were  at  that  end  of  the 
room.  They  sat  about  the  other  three  sides  with 
an  air  of  being  on  their  own  ground.  Andrew 
walked  resolutely  into  the  room,  and  took  pos- 
session of  one  of  the  chairs  reserved  for  his  kind. 
He  had  only  three  or  four  neighbors ;  most  of  the 
tourists  had  gone  up-stairs,  and  were  darkly  sur- 
veying the  scene.  There  were  no  decorations, 
but  the  dowagers  were  a  jewelled  dado,  the  girls 
an  animated  bed  of  blossoms. 

VII 

For  one  hour  Andrew  sat  there,  and  at  its  end 
he  comprehended  why  the  cottagers  did  not  con- 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 

cern  themselves  about  the  tickets  sold.  Not  one 
icy  glance  had  been  directed  at  the  treble  row  of 
seats,  not  one  inquiring  stare  bent  upon  the  oc- 
casional tourist-couple  who  summoned  courage 
to  take  a  whirl.  He  and  his  companions  might 
have  been  invisible  intruders  on  a  foreign  planet, 
for  all  the  notice  the  elect  took  of  them.  There 
was  nothing  overt,  nothing  unkind,  but  the 
stranger  was  as  effectually  frozen  out  as  if  he  had 
fled  before  a  battery  of  lorgnettes.  The  cot- 
tagers were  like  one  large  family.  There  was  no 
more  reserve  among  the  young  people  than  if  they 
had  been  a  party  of  happy  well-trained  school- 
children. What  wonder  that  the  stranger  within 
their  gates  felt  his  remoteness!  During  the 
"Lancers"  they  almost  romped.  They  might 
have  been  on  the  lawn  of  one  of  their  own  cot- 
tages, and  these  outsiders  hanging  on  the  fence. 
To  any  and  all  without  their  world  they  were 
unaffectedly  oblivious. 

At  the  end  of  the  hour  Andrew  rose  heavily  and 
left  his  seat.  His  face  was  gray,  his  knees  shook 
a  little.  He  understood. 

But  his  cup  of  bitterness  was  not  yet  full.  As 
he  made  his  way  down  the  passage  behind  one  of 
the  rows  of  chairs  reserved  for  the  cottagers,  he 
beheld  a  girl  who  had  just  entered.  He  stood 

i94 


The    Tragedy    of   a    Snob 

still  and  stared  at  her,  wondering  that  he  had  ever 
thought  other  women  beautiful.  If  those  he  had 
worshipped  were  princesses,  this  was  a  goddess. 
Only  New  York  could  give  her  that  nameless  dis- 
tinction, so  curiously  unlike  the  graceful  breeding 
of  older  lands, — the  difference  between  the  hot- 
house orchid  and  the  lily  of  ancient  parks.  This 
girl's  figure  was  more  Junoesque  than  was  usual 
with  her  kind,  her  waist  larger.  She  was  very 
tall.  Her  carriage  was  one  of  regal  simplicity, 
as  if  she  were  wont  to  walk  on  stars.  Her  shining 
brown  hair  was  gathered  into  a  knot  at  the  base 
of  her  classic  head.  Her  brow  and  chin  and 
throat  were  perfect  in  their  modelling.  Her  skin, 
of  a  marvellous  whiteness,  seemed  to  shed  a  light 
of  its  own ;  one  might  surely  examine  it  with  a  mi- 
croscope and  find  no  flaw.  Her  mouth  and  nose 
were  irregular,  but  her  large  blue-gray  eyes  shone 
triumphant,  and  she  had  beautiful  ears.  She 
wore  a  simple  gown  of  pale  blue  organdie,  cling- 
ing to  her  faultless  figure,  even  at  the  throat  and 
wrists.  At  her  right  was  the  new-found  relative 
of  the  Webbs,  half  a  head  too  short  to  reach  that 
exquisite  ear  with  his  mumblings.  About  her 
were  several  other  men.  » 

Andrew's  capacity  for  love  may  not  have  been 
very  profound,  but  he  loved  this  woman  at  once 
and  finally.  It  was  a  love  that  would  have  de- 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 

lighted  the  cynical  Schopenhauer  and  the  philo- 
sophical Darwin.  The  instinct  of  selection  had 
never  been  more  spontaneously  and  unerringly 
exercised.  He  was  conscious  of  neither  passion 
nor  sentiment,  however.  She  hovered  in  his 
visions  as  a  companion  at  great  functions — his 
possession  whom  all  the  world  would  envy.  It 
was  not  so  much  she  he  loved  as  what  she  repre- 
sented. 

His  attention  was  momentarily  distracted  by 
the  remarkable  antics  of  an  elderly  man.  This 
person  was  bowing  and  genuflecting  before  the 
goddess,  rolling  his  eyes  upward,  throwing  out 
his  hands,  clasping  and  wringing  them — a  pan- 
tomime of  speechless  admiration.  To  Andrew 
he  looked  like  an  elderly  billy-goat  with  a  thorn 
in  its  hoof.  The  goddess  looked  down  upon  him 
with  an  expression  of  good-natured  contempt. 
The  men  applauded  heartily.  Andrew  once 
more  riveted  his  gaze  on  the  face  which  had 
completed  his  undoing.  In  a  moment  the  girl's 
clear  eyes  met  his,  then  moved  past  as  indiffer- 
ently as  if  she  had  gazed  upon-  space.  Andrew 
turned,  forgetting  his  hat,  and  almost  ran  from 
the  house,  down  the  street,  and  up  the  stairs  to 
his  apartment.  He  flung  himself  into  a  chair, 
buried  his  face  in  his  hands,  and  groaned  aloud. 
The  hopelessness  of  his  case  surged  through  his 

196 


The    Tragedy    of   a    Snob 

brain  with  pitiless  reiteration.  He  might  as  well 
attempt  to  fly  to  one  of  the  cold  stars  above  his 
casement  as  to  besiege  the  society  of  New 
York.  There  was  literally  no  human  being 
out  of  earth's  millions  to  give  him  the  line 
that  would  pass  him  through  those  open  invin- 
cible portals.  Had  he  been  a  baboon  from  Cen- 
tral Africa,  his  chances  would  have  been  better ; 
he  would  have  compelled  their  attention  for  a 
moment. 

There  were  heavy  portieres  over  his  door;  no 
one  could  hear  his  groans,  and  he  afforded  him- 
self that  measure  of  relief.  The  tears  ran  down 
his  cheeks;  he  twisted  his  strong  hands  together. 
Those  whose  hearts  have  been  convulsed  by  the 
bitterness  of  love,  by  the  loss  of  children,  by  the 
downfall  of  great  hopes,  may  read  with  scorn  this 
suffering  of  a  snob.  It  may  seem  a  mean  and  triv- 
ial emotion.  But  he  has  had  scant  opportunity  to 
study  his  kind  who  knows  nothing  of  the  power  of 
the  snob  to  suffer.  An  artist  may  toil  on  unrecog- 
nized, yet  with  the  deep  delight  of  his  art  as  com- 
pensation. A  man  in  public  life  may  be  stung 
with  a  thousand  bitter  defeats,  but  he  has  the  joy 
of  the  fight,  the  self-respect  of  legitimate  am- 
bition. But  for  the  repeated  defeats  of  even  the 
successful  snob,  what  compensation?  Step  by 
step  he  climbs,  to  find  another  still  to  mount, 

14  J97 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 

each  bristling  with  obstacles,  to  which  he  yields 
the  shreds  and  patches  of  his  self-respect.  The 
bitter  knowledge  that  he  is  on  tolerance  is  ever 
with  him — that  no  matter  how  high  he  rises,  he 
can  never  reach  his  goal,  for  at  the  goal  are  only 
those  who  have  never  known  the  need  to  strive. 
Tis  a  constant  battle  for  a  soap-bubble,  an  am- 
bition without  soul. 

And  Andrew?  He  had  not  even  planted  his 
foot  on  the  first  step.  For  five  years  he  had  lived 
in  a  fool's  paradise,  a  corroding  dream.  There 
was  literally  nothing  else  on  earth  that  he  wanted. 
His  money  had  come  to  him  as  the  very  irony  of 
Fate.  It  could  not  give  him  the  one  thing  he 
wished,  and  he  had  no  other  use  for  it.  His 
dream  was  over.  He  felt  like  an  aged  man  set 
free  from  an  asylum  for  the  demented  after  a 
period  of  incarceration  which  had  devoured  the 
good  years  of  his  life.  He  looked  at  what  still 
seemed  wealth  to  him  as  such  a  man  would  look 
at  all  the  joys  of  light  and  liberty  and  taste, 
offered  to  his  paralyzed  senses. 

When  the  sun  rose  it  shone  down  with  an  air 
of  personal  sympathy  upon  the  fleet  of  white 
yachts  in  the  bay,  upon  the  grand  old  avenues, 
upon  the  relics  of  an  historic  past  no  cottager 
ever  thinks  of,  upon  the  splendid  houses  of  those 
who  have  made  Newport's  younger  fame.  And 

198 


The   Tragedy    of  a    Snob 

it  straggled  through  one  pair  of  heavy  curtains 
and  gleamed  upon  the  white  face  of  a  young  man 
who  had  joined  the  ranks  of  those  that  proclaim 
the  world  their  conqueror. 


VII 

Crowned    with    One    Crest 

(Published  in  Vanity  Fair,  London,  in  1895) 


Crowned    with    One    Crest 


[EOPLE  were  beginning  to  won- 
der if  an  American,  having  capt- 
ured a  title  and  worn  it  for  five 
years,  would  renounce  it  for 
mere  good  looks  and  brains;  in 
other  words,  if  Lady  Carnath, 
formerly  Miss  Edith  Ingoldsby,  of  Washington, 
and  still  earlier — before  her  father  had  found 
leisure  to  crown  a  triumphant  financial  career 
with  the  patriotic  labors  of  a  United  States 
Senator — of  Boone,  Iowa,  would  marry  Butler 
Hedworth,  M.P.,  a  gentleman  of  some  fortune 
and  irreproachable  lineage  who  had  already 
made  himself  known  on  the  floor  of  the  House, 
but  was  not  so  much  as  heir-presumptive  to  a 
title.  So  many  American  maidens  had  placidly 
stood  by  while  their  mammas  "arranged"  a 
marriage  between  their  gold-banked  selves  and 
the  impecunious  scion  of  an  historical  house, 
that  the  English,  when  forced  to  admit  them 

203 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 

well-bred,  found  solace  in  the  belief  that  these 
disgustingly  rich  and  handsome  girls  were  with- 
out heart. 

Nevertheless,  Lady  Carnath,  who  had  worn 
her  weeds  but  a  year,  permitted  Butler  Hed- 
worth  to  pay  her  attentions  so  pronounced  that 
her  world  was  mildly  betting  on  his  possible  ac- 
ceptance as  husband  or  lover.  It  was  argued  that 
during  the  life  of  Lord  Carnath  his  wife's  de- 
meanor had  been  above  comment,  but  a  cynic 
remarked  that  women  had  all  sorts  of  odd  ideals ; 
and  was  widely  quoted. 

Edith  Ingoldsby  had  bought  her  Earl  and  paid 
a  high  price  for  him;  nevertheless  she  had  liked 
him  better  than  any  man  but  one  that  she  had 
ever  known,  and  they  had  been  the  best  of  friends. 
When  she  met  him  she  was  in  the  agonies  of  her 
only  passion,  and  had  clutched  the  first  opportu- 
nity to  bury  alive  the  love  that  was  destroying 
her  beauty  and  her  interest  in  life. 

The  passion  had  lingered  for  a  time,  then  gone 
the  way  of  all  passions  unfed  by  a  monotonous 
environment  and  too  much  leisure.  She  found  it 
very  interesting  to  be  an  English  countess.  For 
a  while  she  had  the  impression  of  playing  a  part 
in  a  modern  historical  drama ;  but  before  long  she 
realized,  with  true  American  adaptability,  that 
her  new  life  was  but  the  living  chapters  of  a  book 

204 


Crowned    with    One    Crest 

whose  earlier  parts  had  been  serial  instalments  of 
retiring  memory.  Her  great  wealth,  her  beauty, 
her  piquant  dashing  thoroughbred  manner,  her 
husband's  popularity  and  title,  created  for  her  a 
position  that  would  have  closed  any  wound  not 
irritated  by  domestic  unhappiness ;  and  this  can- 
ker was  not  in  her  rose.  When  Carnath  died  she 
mourned  him  sincerely,  but  not  too  profoundly 
to  anticipate  pleasurably  the  end  of  the  weeded 
year.  When  she  met  Hedworth  she  was  as  free 
of  fancy  and  of  heart  as  if  she  had  but  stepped 
from  a  convent. 

4 'Yes,  I  was  in  love  once—  "  she  admitted  to 
him  one  evening  as  they  sat  alone.  She  blushed 
as  she  tripped  at  the  word  " before."  Hedworth 
had  made  no  declaration  as  yet;  they  were  still 
playing  with  electricity,  and  content  with  sparks. 
"At  least,  I  thought  I  was.  All  girls  have  their 
love  freaks.  I  had  had  several — when  I  was  in 
my  teens.  This  seemed  more  serious,  the  grande 
passion — because  there  was  an  obstacle:  he  was 
married.  If  he  had  been  free,  if  there  had  been 
no  barrier  between  myself  and  what  I  wanted,  I 
think  it  would  have  been  quite  different.  You 
see,  I  had  had  my  own  way  so  long  that  the  situa- 
tion, combined,  of  course,  with  the  man  himself — 
who  was  very  magnetic — fascinated  me;  and  I 
let  myself  go,  to  see  what  it  would  be  like  to  long 

205 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 

for  something  I  could  not  have.  I  suppose  it 
was  my  imagination  that  was  at  work  principally ; 
but  I  ended  by  believing  myself  frantically  in  love 
with  him." 

Hedworth  stood  up  as  she  paused,  and  leaned 
against  the  mantel,  looking  down  at  her.  They 
were  in  her  boudoir,  a  yellow  satin  room  that 
looked  like  a  large  jewel  -  casket.  Lady  Car- 
nath's  long  slender  round  figure  betrayed  its  per- 
fections in  a  gown  of  black  chiffon ;  on  her  white 
neck  and  arms  and  in  her  black  hair  were  many 
diamonds;  she  had  dressed  for  the  opera,  then 
given  the  evening  to  Hedworth.  Her  dark  face 
was  delicately  modelled;  the  mouth  and  chin 
were  very  firm,  but  the  lips  were  full  and  red. 
The  eyes  in  repose  were  a  trifle  languid,  in  anima- 
tion mutable  and  brilliant.  The  brows  were 
finely  pencilled,  and  the  soft  dark  hair,  brushed 
back  from  a  low  forehead,  added  to  the  general 
distinction  of  her  appearance.  Hedworth  studied 
her  face  as  he  had  studied  it  many  times. 

"Well?"  he  asked.  He  had  an  abrupt  voice, 
suggestive  of  temper,  and  the  haughty  bearing 
which  is  the  chief  attraction  of  Englishmen  for 
American  women.  His  face  was  as  well  chiselled 
as  the  average  of  his  kind,  but  lacked  the  national 
repose.  The  eyes  were  very  clever,  the  features 
mobile;  the  tenacity  and  strength  of  his  nature 

206 


Crowned    with    One    Crest 

were  indicated  in  the  lower  part  of  his  face  and 
in  the  powerful  yet  supple  build  of  the  man. 
"Well,  what?" 

I  'What  sort  of  a  man  was  this  Johnny?" 

II  Oh,  I  am  not  very  good  at  describing  people — 
quite  different  from  you — much  lighter — " 

"  I  don't  care  what  he  looked  like.  A  man  only 
looks  to  a  woman  who  is  in  love  with  him  as 
she  imagines  he  looks.  Was  he  in  love  with 
you?" 

"Yes,  of  course  he  was." 

"Did  he  tell  you  so?" 

The  delicate  red  in  Lady  Carnath's  dark  cheek 
deepened.  "Yes.  He  did." 

"Did  you  tell  him  that  you  loved  him?" 

"Yes." 

"What  did  he  do?" 

"  I  don't  know  that  you  have  any  right  to  be  so 
curious." 

"Of  course  you  need  not  answer  if  you  don't 
wish.  Did  he  kiss  you  ?" 

"Yes,  he  did,  if  you  want  to  know.  We  had  a 
tremendous  scene.  I  went  into  high  tragics,  and, 
I  suppose,  bored  the  poor  man  dreadfully." 

"He  was  much  more  matter-of-fact,  I  sup- 
pose?" 

"Yes— he  was." 

"Where  did  this  scene  take  place?" 
207 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 

"In  the  drawing-room  one  afternoon  when  he 
had  walked  home  with  me  from  a  tea." 

"  What  happened  the  next  time  you  met  him  ?" 

"I  never  saw  him  again — that  is,  alone." 

Hedworth's  face  and  tone  changed  suddenly. 
Both  softened.  "  Why  not  ?" 

She  raised  her  head  from  the  back  of  the  sofa 
and  lifted  her  chin  defiantly.  "  I  did  not  dare— 
if  you  will  know.  Carnath  came  along  shortly 
after,  and  I  took  him  as  soon  as  he  offered  him- 
self. Why  do  you  look  so  pleased?  The  one 
was  as  bad  as  the  other,  only  in  the  course  I  took 
there  was  no  scandal." 

"  Which  is  the  point.  Scandal  and  snubs  and 
vulgar  insinuation  in  print  and  out  of  it  would 
have  demoralized  you.  How  do  you  feel  tow- 
ards this  man  now?  If  he  were  free  and  came 
for  you  would  you  marry  him?" 

She  shook  her  head,  and  looked  up  at  him, 
smiling  and  blushing  again.  "He  is  no  more  to 
me  than  one  of  the  book-heroes  I  used  to  fancy 
myself  in  love  with." 

"  Why  didn't  he  get  a  divorce  and  marry  you? 
I  thought  any  one  could  get  a  divorce  in  the 
States." 

"You  English  people  know  so  much  about  the 
United  States!  You  are  willing  to  believe  any- 
thing and  to  know  nothing.  I  really  think  you 

208 


Crowned    with    One    Crest 

feel  that  your  dignity  would  be  compromised  if 
you  knew  as  much  about  America  as  we  know 
about  Europe.  Your  attitude  is  like  that  of  old 
people  to  a  new  invention  which  is  too  remarkable 
for  their  powers  of  appreciation,  so  they  take 
refuge  in  disdain." 

He  smiled,  as  he  always  did  when  her  patriot- 
ism flamed.  "You  haven't  answered  my  ques- 
tion." 

"What? — oh,  divorce.  If  a  man  has  a  good 
wife,  no  matter  how  uncongenial,  he  can't  get 
rid  of  her  unless  he  is  a  brute ;  and  I  didn't  happen 
to  like  that  sort  of  man." 

"  Like  ?  I  thought  you  said  just  now  that  you 
loved  him." 

"I  don't  think  now  that  I  did.  I  explained 
that  a  while  ago." 

"Why  have  you  changed  your  mind?" 

"  I  never  knew  a  man  to  ask  so  many  ques- 
tions." 

But  before  he  left  her  he  knew. 

Edith  anticipated  pleasurably  the  sensation 
her  engagement  would  make,  but  did  not  an- 
nounce it  at  once.  She  had  a  certain  feminine 
secretiveness  which  made  her  doubly  enjoy  a  hap- 
piness undiluted  by  publicity;  moreover,  some 
further  deference  was  due  to  Carnath.  She  was 

209 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 

very  happy,  the  more  so  as  she  had  believed  until 
a  short  while  ago  that  her  strong  temperamental 
possibilities  were  vaulted  in  her  nature's  little 
church-yard.  "Our  hearts  after  first  love  are 
like  our  dead,"  she  thought ;  "  they  sleep  until  the 
hour  of  resurrection."  Hedworth  dominated 
her,  had  taken  her  love  rather  than  asked  for  it, 
and,  although  he  was  jealous  and  exacting,  she 
was  haunted  by  the  traditions  of  man's  muta- 
bility, and  studied  her  resources  as  it  had  never 
occurred  to  her  to  study  them  before.  She  found 
that  the  outer  envelopes  of  her  personality  could 
be  made  to  shift  with  kaleidoscopic  brilliancy, 
and  except  when  Hedworth  needed  repose — she 
had  much  tact — she  treated  him  to  these  many 
moods  in  turn.  It  is  possible  that  she  added  to 
her  fascination,  but,  having  won  him  without  ef- 
fort, she  might  have  rested  on  her  laurels.  He 
was  deeply  in  love  with  her,  and  worried  himself 
with  presentiments  of  what  might  happen  before 
she  would  consent  to  name  the  wedding-day. 
Both  being  children  of  worldly  wisdom,  however, 
they  harlequined  their  misgivings  and  were  happy 
when  together. 

Fortunately  for  both,  she  was  heavy-laden  with 
femininity,  and  was  content  to  give  all,  and  re- 
ceive the  little  that  man  in  the  nature  of  his  life 
and  inherited  particles  has  to  offer.  She  was  sat- 

210 


Crowned    with    One    Crest 

isfied  to  be  adored,  desired,  mentally  appreciated. 
If  his  ego  was  always  paramount,  his  spiritual 
demands  so  imperious  that  he  appropriated  the 
full  measure  of  sympathy  and  comprehension 
that  Nature  has  let  loose  for  man  and  woman,  not 
caring  to  know  anything  of  her  beyond  the  fact 
that  she  was  the  one  woman  in  the  world  in 
whom  he  saw  no  fault,  she  was  satisfied  to  have  it 
so.  She  was  a  clever  woman,  but  not  too  clever; 
and  their  chances  of  happiness  were  good. 

And  then  a  strange  thing  happened  to  her. 

Hedworth  was  called  to  Switzerland  by  his 
mother,  who  fell  ill.  His  parting  with  Edith  oc- 
cupied several  hours,  and  during  the  three  or 
four  days  following,  his  affianced  protested  that 
she  was  inconsolable.  But  his  letters  were  fre- 
quent and  characteristic,  and  she  began  to  enjoy 
the  new  phase  of  their  intercourse:  the  excite- 
ment of  waiting  for  the  post,  the  delight  which 
the  first  glimpse  of  the  envelope  on  her  break- 
fast-tray gave  her,  the  novelty  of  receiving  a 
fragment  of  him  daily,  which  her  imagination 
could  expand  into  his  hourly  life  and  thoughts. 
The  season  was  over,  and  she  had  little  else  to  do. 
She  expected  him  back  at  any  moment,  and  pre- 
ferred to  await  his  arrival  in  town. 

One  evening  she  was  sitting  in  her  bedroom 
thinking  of  him.  The  night  was  hot  and  the 

211 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 

windows  were  open.  It  was  very  late.  She  had 
been  staring  down  upon  the  dark  mass  of  tree- 
tops  in  the  Park,  recapitulating,  phase  by  phase, 
the  growth  of  her  feeling  for  Hedworth.  Sud- 
denly it  occurred  to  her  that  it  bore  a  strong  racial 
resemblance  to  her  first  passion,  and,  being  too 
intelligent  to  have  escaped  the  habit  of  analysis, 
she  dug  up  the  old  love  and  dissected  it.  It  had 
been  better  preserved  than  she  would  have 
thought,  for  it  did  not  offend  her  sense ;  and  she 
gave  an  hour  to  the  office.  She  went  back  to  her 
first  moment  of  conscious  interest  in  the  hero  of 
her  tragedy,  galvanized  the  thrill  she  had  felt 
when  he  entered  her  presence,  her  restlessness 
and  doubt  and  jealousy  when  he  was  away,  or  ap- 
peared to  neglect  her;  the  recognition  that  she 
was  in  the  hard  grasp  of  a  passion  in  which  she 
had  had  little  faith ;  the  sweetness  and  terror  of  it, 
the  keen  delight  in  the  sense  of  danger.  There 
had  been  weeks  of  companionship  before  he  had 
defined  their  position;  it  occurred  to  her  now 
that  he  had  managed  her  with  the  skill  and  cool- 
ness of  a  man  who  understood  women  and  could 
keep  his  head,  even  while  quickened  with  all  that 
he  inspired.  She  also  recalled,  her  lips  curling 
into  a  cynical  grin,  that  she  had  felt  the  same 
promptings  for  spiritual  abandonment,  of  high 
desire  to  help  this  man  where  he  was  weak,  to 

212 


Crowned    with    One    Crest 

restore  some  of  his  lost  ideals,  or  to  replace  them 
with  better;  to  root  out  the  weeds  which  she 
recognized  in  his  nature,  and  to  coax  the  choked 
bulbs  of  those  fairer  flowers  which  may  have  been 
there  before  he  and  the  world  knew  each  other 
too  well.  Then  she  relived  the  days  and  nights 
of  torment  when  she  had  walked  the  floor  wring- 
ing her  hands,  barely  eating  and  sleeping.  She 
recalled  that  she  had  even  beaten  the  walls  and 
flung  herself  against  them. 

The  procession  was  startlingly  familiar  and 
fresh  of  lineament ;  even  the  moments  of  rapture, 
whose  memory  is  soonest  to  fade,  and  the  fitful 
solace  she  had  found,  in  those  last  days,  imagin- 
ing what  might  have  been. 

She  got  up  and  walked  about  the  room,  half 
amused,  half  appalled.  "What  does  it  mean?" 
she  thought.  "Is  it  that  there  is  an  impalpable 
entity  in  this  world  for  me,  and  that  part  of  it  is 
in  one  man  and  part  in  another  ?  Is  the  man  who 
has  the  larger  share  the  one  I  really  love  ?  Is  that 
the  explanation  of  loving  a  second  time  ?  It  cer- 
tainly is  very  like — ridiculously  like." 

She  turned  her  thoughts  to  Hedworth,  but 
they  swung  aside  and  pointed  straight  to  the 
other  man.  She  half  expected  to  see  his  ghost 
framed  in  the  dark  window,  he  seemed  so  close. 
She  found  herself  living  the  past  again  and  again, 
is  213 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 

instinct  with  its  sensations.  He  had  had  much 
in  his  life  to  cark  and  harrow,  and  the  old  sym- 
pathy and  tenderness  vibrated  aloud,  and  little 
out  of  tune.  She  wondered  what  had  become  of 
him,  what  he  was  doing  at  the  moment.  She  did 
not  believe  that  he  had  loved  any  woman  since; 
he  had  nearly  exhausted  his  capacity  for  loving 
when  he  met  her. 

And  at  the  same  time  she  was  distinctly  con- 
scious that  if  the  two  men  stood  before  her  she 
should  spring  to  Hedworth.  Nevertheless,  when 
she  conjured  his  image,  the  shadowy  figure  of  the 
other  man  stood  behind,  looking  over  Hedworth's 
shoulder,  with  the  half -cynical  smile  which  had 
only  left  his  mouth  when  he  had  told  her,  with 
white  face  whose  muscles  were  free  of  his  will  for 
the  moment,  that  he  loved  her. 

"  Is  it  the  old  love  that  is  demanding  its  rights, 
not  the  man?"  she  thought.  "Is  it  true,  then, 
that  all  we  women  want  is  love,  and  that  it  is  as 
welcome  in  one  attractive  frame  as  another? 
That  it  is  not  Hedworth  I  love,  but  what  he  gives 
me?  Now  that  I  even  suspect  this,  can  I  be 
happy?  Will  that  ghost  always  look  over  his 
shoulder?" 

She  was  a  woman  of  sound  practical  sense,  and 
had  no  intention  of  risking  her  happiness  by  fall- 
ing a  victim  to  her  imagination.  She  pressed  the 

214 


Crowned    with    One    Crest 

electric -button  and  wrote  a  letter  to  her  former 
lover — a  friendly  letter,  without  sentimental  al- 
lusion, asking  for  news  of  him.  The  sight  of  the 
handwriting  that  once  had  thrilled  her,  as  well 
as  the  nature  of  his  reply,  would  at  least  bring 
her  to  some  sort  of  mental  climax.  Moreover,  he 
might  be  dead.  It  might  be  spiritual  influence 
that  had  handled  her  imagination.  She  was  not 
a  superstitious  woman;  she  was  merely  wise 
enough  to  know  that  she  knew  nothing,  and  that 
it  was  folly  to  disbelieve  anything. 

Hedworth  did  not  return  for  three  weeks. 
During  that  time  it  seemed  to  her  that  her  brain 
was  an  amphitheatre  in  which  the  two  men  were 
constantly  wrestling.  She  never  saw  one  with- 
out the  other.  When  Hedworth  mastered  for  the 
moment  she  was  reminded  that  he  was  merely 
playing  a  familiar  tune  on  her  soul-keys.  She  felt 
for  the  man  who  had  first  touched  those  keys  a 
persistent  tenderness,  and  during  the  last  days 
watched  restlessly  for  his  letter.  But  she  felt  no 
desire  wUfetever  to  see  him  again.  For  Hedworth 
she  longed  increasingly. 

Hedworth  returned.  The  other  man  van- 
ished. 

She  announced  the  engagement.  They  had 
been  invited  to  the  same  houses  for  the  autumn. 

2I5 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 

Necessarily  they  saw  little  of  each  other,  and 
planned  to  meet  in  the  less-frequented  rooms 
and  in  the  woods.  At  first  they  enjoyed  this 
new  experience;  but  when  they  found  them- 
selves in  a  large  party  that  seemed  to  pervade 
every  corner  of  the  house  and  grounds  at  once, 
and  two  days  had  passed  without  an  interview  of 
five  minutes'  duration,  Hedworth  walked  up  to 
her — she  was  alone  for  the  moment — and  said  : 

"Four  weeks  from  to-day  we  marry." 

She  gave  a  little  gasp,  but  made  no  protest. 

"I  have  had  enough  of  dawdling  and  senti- 
mentalizing. We  will  marry  at  your  place  in 
Sussex  on  the  second  of  October." 

"Very  well,"  she  said. 

Shortly  after  she  went  to  Paris  to  confer  with 
the  talent  that  should  enhance  her  loveliness, 
then  paid  Mrs.  Hedworth  a  visit  in  Switzerland. 
Hedworth  met  her  there,  and  his  mother  saw 
little  of  her  guests.  Edith  returned  to  England 
alone.  Hedworth  was  to  follow  at  the  end  of  the 
week,  and  spend  the  few  remaining  days  of  his 
bachelorhood  at  the  house  of  a  friend  whose  es- 
tate adjoined  the  one  Lady  Carnath  had  bought 
not  long  after  her  husband's  death. 

Several  days  after  her  return  she  was  sitting  at 
her  dressing-table  when  a  letter  was  handed  her 
bearing  the  Washington  post-mark.  Her  maid 

216 


Crowned    with    One    Crest 

was  devising  a  new  coiffure,  and  she  was  grum- 
bling at  the  result.  She  glanced  at  the  hand- 
writing, pushed  the  letter  aside,  and  commanded 
the  maid  to  arrange  her  hair  in  the  simple  fashion 
that  suited  her  best.  After  the  woman  had  fixed 
the  last  pin,  Edith  critically  examined  her  pro- 
file in  the  triple  mirror;  then  thrust  out  a  thin 
little  foot  to  be  divested  of  its  mule  and  shod  in  a 
slipper  that  had  arrived  that  morning  from  Paris : 
she  expected  people  to  tea.  While  the  maid  was 
on  her  knees  Edith  bethought  herself  of  the  letter 
and  read  it: — 

DEAR  LADY  CARNATH — I  have  been  in  Canada  all 
summer.  No  letters  were  forwarded.  I  find  yours 
here  at  the  Metropolitan.  Thanks,  I  am  well.  Life 
is  the  same  with  me.  I  eat  and  drink  and  wither. 
But  you  are  a  memory  to  be  thankful  for,  and  I  have 
never  tried  to  forget  you.  I  was  glad  to  learn  through 
Tower,  whom  I  met  in  Montreal,  that  you  were  well 
and  happy.  I  wish  I  may  never  hear  otherwise. 

Then  followed  several  pages  of  news  of  her  old 
friends. 

"Poor  fellow!"  thought  Edith  with  a  sigh. 
"  But  I  doubt  if  any  woman  or  any  circumstances 
would  ever  make  a  man  like  that  happy.  There 
are  those  wretched  people,  and  I  am  not  half 
dressed!" 

Nevertheless,  he  again  took  his  stand  in  her 
217 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 

brain  and  elbowed  Hedworth — whose  concrete 
part  was  still  detained  in  Switzerland.  She  did 
not  answer  the  letter  at  once ;  it  was  not  an  easy 
letter  to  answer.  But  it  haunted  her ;  and  finally 
she  sat  down  at  her  desk  and  bit  the  end  of  her 
penholder. 

She  sat  staring  before  her,  the  man  in  complete 
possession.  And  gradually  the  color  left  her  face. 
If  this  old  love,  which  her  mind  and  senses  had 
corporealized,  refused  to  abdicate,  had  she  any 
right  to  marry  Hedworth?  Now  that  she  had 
unlocked  this  ghost,  might  not  she  find  it  at  her 
side  whenever  her  husband  was  absent,  reminding 
her  that  she  was  a  sort  of  mental  bigamist? 
Carnath  had  no  part  in  her  dilemma;  she  barely 
recalled  his  episode. 

She  was  as  positive  as  she  had  been  when  the 
past  unrolled  itself  that  she  had  no  wish  to  see  the 
first  man  again;  that  did  he  stand  before  her  his 
power  would  vanish.  He  was  a  back  number — a 
fatal  position  to  occupy  in  the  imagination  of  a 
vital  and  world-living  woman. 

"  Is  it  all  that  he  awakened,  made  known  to  me, 
represented,  that  arises  in  resentment?  Or  is  it 
that  the  soul  only  gives  itself  once,  acknowledges 
only  one  mate?  The  mind  and  body,  perhaps, 
obey  the  demand  for  companionship  again.  The 
soul  in  its  loneliness  endeavors  to  accompany 

218 


Crowned    with    One    Crest 

these  comrades,  but  finds  itself  linked  to  the  mate 
of  the  past.  Probably  when  a  woman  marries  a 
man  she  does  not  love,  the  soul,  having  no  de- 
mand made  upon  it,  abstracts  itself,  sleeps.  It  is 
when  a  mate  to  whom  it  might  wholly  have  given 
itself  appears,  that,  in  its  isolation  and  desolation, 
it  clamors  for  its  wedded  part." 

Her  teeth  indented  the  nib  of  her  penholder. 
"Was  ever  a  woman  in  such  a  predicament  be- 
fore? So  illusionary  and  yet  so  ridiculously 
actual!  Shall  I  send  Hedworth  away  and  sit 
down  with  this  phantom  through  life?  I  under- 
stand that  some  women  get  their  happiness  out 
of  just  that  sort  of  thing.  Then  when  I  forget 
Hedworth  would  I  forget  him  f  Is  passion  needed 
to  set  the  soul  free?  Until  Hedworth  made  me 
feel  awakened  womanhood  personified,  I  had 
not  thought  of  this  man  for  years,  not  even  dur- 
ing the  year  of  my  mourning,  when  I  was  rather 
bored.  What  am  I  to  do  ?  I  can't  fling  my  life 
away.  I  am  not  a  morbid  idiot.  But  I  can't 
marry  one  man  if  what  I  feel  for  him  is  simply  the 
galvanizing  of  a  corpse.  Hedworth  ought  to  be 
taken  ill  and  his  life  despaired  of.  That  is  the 
way  things  would  work  out  in  a  novel." 

Her  face  grew  whiter  still.  She  had  experienced 
another  mental  shock.  For  the  first  time  she 
realized  that  no  woman  could  suffer  twice  as  she 

219 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 

had  suffered  five  years  ago.  That  at  least  was  all 
the  other  man's.  Her  capacity  for  pain  had  been 
blunted,  two  -  thirds  exhausted.  If  Hedworth 
left  her,  died,  she  might  regret  him,  long  to  have 
him  back ;  but  the  ghost  of  that  abandon  of  grief, 
that  racking  of  every  sense,  that  groping  in  an 
abyss  while  a  voiceless  something  within  her 
raved  and  shrieked,  resolved  itself  into  a  finger 
of  fire,  which  wrote  Hedworth's  inferior  position. 

"What  shall  I  do?  What  shall  I  do?"  She 
dipped  the  pen  into  the  ink  and  put  it  to  the 
paper.  At  least,  for  the  moment,  she  could  write 
a  friendly  note  to  this  man,  convey  tactful  sym- 
pathy, little  good  as  it  would  do  him.  The  letter 
must  be  answered. 

She  heard  a  step  on  the  gravel  beneath  her 
open  window.  She  sprang  to  her  feet,  the  blood 
rushing  to  her  hair.  She  ran  to  the  window  and 
leaned  out,  smiling  and  trembling.  Hedworth's 
eyes  flashed  upward  to  hers.  She  was,  it  must  be 
admitted,  a  product  of  that  undulating  and 
alluring  plain  we  call  "  the  world,"  not  of  those 
heights  where  the  few  who  have  scaled  them 
live  alone. 


VIII 

Death    and    the    Woman 

(This  story  first  appeared  in  Vanity  Fair,  London,  in  1892) 


Death    and    the   Woman 


[ER  husband  was  dying,  and  she 
was  alone  with  him.  Nothing 
could  exceed  the  desolation  of 
her  surroundings.  She  and  the 
man  who  was  going  from  her 
were  in  the  third-floor-back  of  a 
New  York  boarding-house.  It  was  summer,  and 
the  other  boarders  were  in  the  country;  all  the 
servants  except  the  cook  had  been  dismissed,  and 
she,  when  not  working,  slept  profoundly  on  the 
fifth  floor.  The  landlady  also  was  out  of  town 
on  a  brief  holiday. 

The  window  was  open  to  admit  the  thick  un- 
stirring  air ;  no  sound  rose  from  the  row  of  long 
narrow  yards,  nor  from  the  tall  deep  houses  an- 
nexed. The  latter  deadened  the  rattle  of  the 
streets.  At  intervals  the  distant  elevated  lum- 
bered protestingly  along,  its  grunts  and  screams 
muffled  by  the  hot  suspended  ocean. 

She  sat  there  plunged  in  the  profoundest  grief 
223 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 

that  can  come  to  the  human  soul,  for  in  all  other 
agony  hope  flickers,  however  forlornly.  She 
gazed  dully  at  the  unconscious  breathing  form  of 
the  man  who  had  been  friend,  and  companion,  and 
lover,  during  five  years  of  youth  too  vigorous  and 
hopeful  to  be  warped  by  uneven  fortune.  It  was 
wasted  by  disease;  the  face  was  shrunken;  the 
night-garment  hung  loosely  about  a  body  which 
had  never  been  disfigured  by  flesh,  but  had  been 
muscular  with  exercise  and  full-blooded  with 
health.  She  was  glad  that  the  body  was  changed ; 
glad  that  its  beauty,  too,  had  gone  some  other- 
where than  into  the  coffin.  She  had  loved  his 
hands  as  apart  from  himself;  loved  their  strong 
warm  magnetism.  They  lay  limp  and  yellow  on 
the  quilt :  she  knew  that  they  were  already  cold, 
and  that  moisture  was  gathering  on  them.  For  a 
moment  something  convulsed  within  her.  They 
had  gone  too.  She  repeated  the  words  twice,  and, 
after  them,  "forever"  And  the  while  the  sweet- 
ness of  their  pressure  came  back  to  her. 

She  leaned  suddenly  over  him.  HE  was  in 
there  still,  somewhere.  Where?  If  he  had  not 
ceased  to  breathe,  the  Ego,  the  Soul,  the  Personal- 
ity was  still  in  the  sodden  clay  which  had  shaped 
to  give  it  speech.  Why  could  it  not  manifest 
itself  to  her  ?  Was  it  still  conscious  in  there,  un- 
able to  project  itself  through  the  disintegrating 

224 


Death    and    the    Woman 

matter  which  was  the  only  medium  its  Creator 
had  vouchsafed  it  ?  Did  it  struggle  there,  seeing 
her  agony,  sharing  it,  longing  for  the  complete 
disintegration  which  should  put  an  end  to  its  tor- 
ment ?  She  called  his  name,  she  even  shook  him 
slightly,  mad  to  tear  the  body  apart  and  find  her 
mate,  yet  even  in  that  tortured  moment  realizing 
that  violence  would  hasten  his  going. 

The  dying  man  took  no  notice  of  her,  and  she 
opened  his  gown  and  put  her  cheek  to  his  heart, 
calling  him  again.  There  had  never  been  more 
perfect  union;  how  could  the  bond  still  be  so 
strong  if  he  were  not  at  the  other  end  of  it? 
He  was  there,  her  other  part ;  until  dead  he  must 
be  living.  There  was  no  intermediate  state. 
Why  should  he  be  as  entombed  and  unresponding 
as  if  the  screws  were  in  the  lid  ?  But  the  faintly 
beating  heart  did  not  quicken  beneath  her  lips. 
She  extended  her  arms  suddenly,  describing  ec- 
centric lines,  above,  about  him,  rapidly  opening 
and  closing  her  hands  as  if  to  clutch  some  es- 
caping object ;  then  sprang  to  her  feet,  and  went 
to  the  window.  She  feared  insanity.  She  had 
asked  to  be  left  alone  with  her  dying  husband, 
and  she  did  not  wish  to  lose  her  reason  and  shriek 
a  crowd  of  people  about  her. 

The  green  plots  in  the  yards  were  not  apparent, 
she  noticed.  Something  heavy,  like  a  pall,  rested 

225 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 

upon  them.  Then  she  understood  that  the  day 
was  over  and  that  night  was  coming. 

She  returned  swiftly  to  the  bedside,  wondering 
if  she  had  remained  away  hours  or  seconds,  and 
if  he  were  dead.  His  face  was  still  discernible, 
and  Death  had  not  relaxed  it.  She  laid  her  own 
against  it,  then  withdrew  it  with  shuddering 
flesh,  her  teeth  smiting  each  other  as  if  an  icy 
wind  had  passed. 

She  let  herself  fall  back  in  the  chair,  clasping 
her  hands  against  her  heart,  watching  with  ex- 
panding eyes  the  white  sculptured  face  which,  in 
the  glittering  dark,  was  becoming  less  defined  of 
outline.  Did  she  light  the  gas  it  would  draw 
mosquitoes,  and  she,  could  not  shut  from  him  the 
little  air  he  must  be  mechanically  grateful  for. 
And  she  did  not  want  to  see  the  opening  eye — the 
falling  jaw. 

Her  vision  became  so  fixed  that  at  length  she 
saw  nothing,  and  closed  her  eyes  and  waited  for 
the  moisture  to  rise  and  relieve  the  strain.  When 
she  opened  them  his  face  had  disappeared;  the 
humid  waves  above  the  house-tops  put  out 
even  the  light  of  the  stars,  and  night  was 
come. 

Fearfully,  she  approached  her  ear  to  his  lips; 
he  still  breathed.  She  made  a  motion  to  kiss 
him,  then  threw  herself  back  in  a  quiver  of  agony 

226 


Death    and    the    Woman 

—they  were  not  the  lips  she  had  known,  and  she 
would  have  nothing  less. 

His  breathing  was  so  faint  that  in  her  half -re- 
clining position  she  could  not  hear  it,  could  not 
be  aware  of  the  moment  of  his  death.  She  ex- 
tended her  arm  resolutely  and  laid  her  hand  on 
his  heart.  Not  only  must  she  feel  his  going,  but, 
so  strong  had  been  the  comradeship  between 
them,  it  was  a  matter  of  loving  honor  to  stand  by 
him  to  the  last. 

She  sat  there  in  the  hot  heavy  night,  pressing 
her  hand  hard  against  the  ebbing  heart  of  the 
unseen,  and  awaited  Death.  Suddenly  an  odd 
fancy  possessed  her.  Where  was  Death?  Why 
was  he  tarrying  ?  Who  was  detaining  him  ? 
From  what  quarter  would  he  come?  He  was 
taking  his  leisure,  drawing  near  with  footsteps  as 
measured  as  those  of  men  keeping  time  to  a 
funeral  march.  By  a  wayward  deflection  she 
thought  of  the  slow  music  that  was  always  turned 
on  in  the  theatre  when  the  heroine  was  about  to 
appear,  or  something  eventful  to  happen.  She 
had  always  thought  that  sort  of  thing  ridiculous 
and  inartistic.  So  had  He. 

She  drew  her  brows  together  angrily,  wonder- 
ing at  her  levity,  and  pressed  her  relaxed  palm 
against  the  heart  it  kept  guard  over.  For  a  mo- 
ment the  sweat  stood  on  her  face;  then  the 

227 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 

pent-up  breath  burst  from  her  lungs.  He  still 
lived. 

Once  more  the  fancy  wantoned  above  the 
stunned  heart.  Death — where  was  he?  What 
a  curious  experience:  to  be  sitting  alone  in  a  big 
house — she  knew  that  the  cook  had  stolen  out — 
waiting  for  Death  to  come  and  snatch  her  husband 
from  her.  No;  he  would  not  snatch,  he  would 
steal  upon  his  prey  as  noiselessly  as  the  approach 
of  Sin  to  Innocence — an  invisible,  unfair,  sneak- 
ing enemy,  with  whom  no  man's  strength  could 
grapple.  If  he  would  only  come  like  a  man,  and 
take  his  chances  like  a  man!  Women  had  been 
known  to  reach  the  hearts  of  giants  with  the 
dagger's  point.  But  he  would  creep  upon  her. 

She  gave  an  exclamation  of  horror.  Some- 
thing was  creeping  over  the  window-sill.  Her 
limbs  palsied,  but  she  struggled  to  her  feet  and 
looked  back,  her  eyes  dragged  about  against  her 
own  volition.  Two  small  green  stars  glared  men- 
acingly at  her  just  above  the  sill;  then  the  cat 
possessing  them  leaped  downward,  and  the  stars 
disappeared. 

She  realized  that  she  was  horribly  frightened. 
"Is  it  possible?"  she  thought.  "Am  I  afraid  of 
Death,  and  of  Death  that  has  not  yet  come  ?  I 
have  always  been  rather  a  brave  woman ;  He  used 
to  call  me  heroic;  but  then  with  him  it  was  im- 

228 


Death    and    the    Woman 

possible  to  fear  anything.  And  I  begged  them 
to  leave  me  alone  with  him  as  the  last  of  earthly 
boons.  Oh,  shame!" 

But  she  was  still  quaking  as  she  resumed  her 
seat,  and  laid  her  hand  again  on  his  heart.  She 
wished  that  she  had  asked  Mary  to  sit  outside 
the  door ;  there  was  no  bell  in  the  room.  To  call 
would  be  worse  than  desecrating  the  house  of 
God,  and  she  would  not  leave  him  for  one 
moment.  To  return  and  find  him  dead — gone 
alone ! 

Her  knees  smote  each  other.  It  was  idle  to 
deny  it ;  she  was  in  a  state  of  unreasoning  terror. 
Her  eyes  rolled  apprehensively  about;  she  won- 
dered if  she  should  see  It  when  It  came ;  wondered 
how  far  off  It  was  now.  Not  very  far ;  the  heart 
was  barely  pulsing.  She  had  heard  of  the  power 
of  the  corpse  to  drive  brave  men  to  frenzy,  and 
had  wondered,  having  no  morbid  horror  of  the 
dead.  But  this !  To  wait — and  wait — and  wait 
—perhaps  for  hours — past  the  midnight — on  to 
the  small  hours — while  that  awful,  determined, 
leisurely  Something  stole  nearer  and  nearer. 

She  bent  to  him  who  had  been  her  protector 
with  a  spasm  of  anger.  Where  was  the  indom- 
itable spirit  that  had  held  her  all  these  years  with 
such  strong  and  loving  clasp?  How  could  he 
leave  her?  How  could  he  desert  her?  Her 
16  229 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 

head  fell  back  and  moved  restlessly  against  the 
cushion ;  moaning  with  the  agony  of  loss,  she  re- 
called him  as  he  had  been.  Then  fear  once  more 
took  possession  of  her,  and  she  sat  erect,  rigid, 
breathless,  awaiting  the  approach  of  Death. 

Suddenly,  far  down  in  the  house,  on  the  first 
floor,  her  strained  hearing  took  note  of  a  sound — 
a  wary,  muffled  sound,  as  if  some  one  were  creep- 
ing up  the  stair,  fearful  of  being  heard.  Slowly ! 
It  seemed  to  count  a  hundred  between  the  laying 
down  of  each  foot.  She  gave  a  hysterical  gasp. 
Where  was  the  slow  music  ? 

Her  face,  her  body,  were  wet — as  if  a  wave  of 
death-sweat  had  broken  over  them.  There  was 
a  stiff  feeling  at  the  roots  of  her  hair;  she  won- 
dered if  it  were  really  standing  erect.  But  she 
could  not  raise  her  hand  to  ascertain.  Possibly 
it  was  only  the  coloring  matter  freezing  and 
bleaching.  Her  muscles  were  flabby,  her  nerves 
twitched  helplessly. 

She  knew  that  it  was  Death  who  was  coming  to 
her  through  the  silent  deserted  house ;  knew  that 
it  was  the  sensitive  ear  of  her  intelligence  that 
heard  him,  not  the  dull,  coarse-grained  ear  of  the 
body. 

He  toiled  up  the  stair  painfully,  as  if  he  were 
old  and  tired  with  much  work.  But  how  could 
he  afford  to  loiter,  with  all  the  work  he  had  to  do  ? 

230 


Death    and    the    Woman 

Every  minute,  every  second,  he  must  be  in  de- 
mand to  hook  his  cold,  hard  finger  about  a  soul 
struggling  to  escape  from  its  putrefying  tene- 
ment. But  probably  he  had  his  emissaries,  his 
minions:  for  only  those  worthy  of  the  honor  did 
he  come  in  person. 

He  reached  the  first  landing  and  crept  like  a 
cat  down  the  hall  to  the  next  stair,  then  crawled 
slowly  up  as  before.  Light  as  the  footfalls  were, 
they  were  squarely  planted,  unfaltering;  slow, 
they  never  halted. 

Mechanically  she  pressed  her  jerking  hand 
closer  against  the  heart;  its  beats  were  almost 
done.  They  would  finish,  she  calculated,  just 
as  those  footfalls  paused  beside  the  bed. 

She  was  no  longer  a  human  being;  she  was  an 
Intelligence  and  an  EAR.  Not  a  sound  came 
from  without,  even  the  Elevated  appeared  to  be 
temporarily  off  duty;  but  inside  the  big  quiet 
house  that  footfall  was  waxing  louder,  louder, 
until  iron  feet  crashed  on  iron  stairs  and  echo 
thundered. 

She  had  counted  the  steps — one — two — three 
— irritated  beyond  endurance  at  the  long  deliber- 
ate pauses  between.  As  they  climbed  and  clang- 
ed with  slow  precision  she  continued  to  count, 
audibly  and  with  equal  precision,  noting  their 
hollow  reverberation.  How  many  steps  had  the 

231 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 

stair?  She  wished  she  knew.  No  need!  The 
colossal  trampling  announced  the  lessening  dis- 
tance in  an  increasing  volume  of  sound  not  to  be 
misunderstood.  It  turned  the  curve ;  it  reached 
the  landing ;  it  advanced — slowly — down  the  hall ; 
it  paused  before  her  door.  Then  knuckles  of 
iron  shook  the  frail  panels.  Her  nerveless  tongue 
gave  no  invitation.  The  knocking  became  more 
imperious;  the  very  walls  vibrated.  The  handle 
turned,  swiftly  and  firmly.  With  a  wild  in- 
stinctive movement  she  flung  herself  into  the  arms 
of  her  husband. 

When  Mary  opened  the  door  and  entered  the 
room  she  found  a  dead  woman  lying  across  a 
dead  man. 


IX 

A    Prologue 

(TO    AN   UNWRITTEN    PLAY) 


A    Prologue 


CHARACTERS:  James  Hamil- 
ton, Mary  Fawcett,  Rachael  La- 
vine,  two  slaves.  Place :  Nevis, 
British  West  Indies.  Time :  The 
month  of  April,  1756. 

[A  large  room,  with  open  win- 
dows, to  which  are  attached  heavy  inside  wooden 
shutters  furnished  with  iron  bars.  Beyond  the 
windows  are  seen  masses  of  tropical  trees  and  foli- 
age, green  and  more  brilliantly  hued,  filled  with 
screaming  birds  and  monkeys.  In  the  court  is 
a  fountain.  The  house  is  half-way  up  the  moun- 
tain, and  between  the  trees  is  a  glint  of  the 
sea.  The  room  is  severely  simple.  There  are 
no  curtains,  carpets,  nor  upholstered  furniture; 
but  there  are  two  handsome  pieces  of  mahogany, 
a  bookcase  full  of  books  bound  in  old  calf,  a 
table  on  which  are  tropical  fruits  and  cooling 
drinks  in  earthen  jugs,  one  or  two  palm-trees, 
and  Caribbean  pottery  on  shelves.  In  one  cor- 
ner is  a  harp. 

235 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 

In  the  distance  is  heard  a  loud  menacing  roar. 
The  sky  is  covered  with  racing  clouds.  Suf- 
fusing everything  is  a  livid  light. 

Mistress  Fawcett  is  leaning  on  her  crutch, 
looking  through  one  of  the  windows.  Two  slaves 
are  crouching  on  the  floor.  All  are  in  an  intense 
attitude,  listening.  Suddenly  there  is  heard 
the  quick  loud  firing  of  cannon,  four  guns  in 
rapid  succession.  The  negroes  shriek  and  crouch 
lower  as  if  they  would  insinuate  their  trembling 
bodies  through  the  floor.  Mistress  Fawcett 
hastily  closes  the  window  by  which  she  is  stand- 
ing, swings  to  and  bars  its  shutters.  Immedi- 
ately after  may  be  heard  the  sound,  gradually 
diminishing  in  the  distance,  of  a  long  line  of  win- 
dows slammed  and  barred.  Mistress  Fawcett 
attempts  to  move  the  shutters  of  the  other  win- 
dow, but  the  hinges  are  rusty  and  defy  her 
feeble  strength.] 

MISTRESS  FAWCETT  (to  the  slaves).  Come 
here.  Close  this  window.  Did  you  not  hear 
the  guns?  A  hurricane  is  upon  us. 

THE  SLAVES  (crouching  lower  and  wailing 
almost  unintelligibly).  Oh,  mistress,  save  us! 
Send  for  oby  doctor! 

MISTRESS  FAWCETT.  To  strangle  you  with  a 
horse-hair  pie !  Your  obeah  charlatans  are  grov- 
elling in  their  cellars.  Only  our  courage  and 

236 


A    Prologue 

our  two  hands  can  save  us  to-day.  Come! 
(Beating  the  floor  with  her  crutch.)  A  hundred 
man  slaves  on  the  estate,  and  not  one  to  help  us 
save  the  house!  Are  my  daughter  and  I  to  do 
it  all?  Get  up!  (She  menaces  them  with  her 
crutch.) 

THE  SLAVES  (not  moving).     Oh,  mistress! 

[Enter  Rachael.  She  walks  to  the  open  win- 
dow and  looks  out.] 

MISTRESS  FAWCETT.  Close  the  windows, 
Rachael.  I  cannot.  And  those  creatures  are 
empty  skulls. 

RACHAEL.     In  a  moment. 

MISTRESS  FAWCETT.  In  a  moment?  Open 
your  ears.  Do  you  want  to  see  the  roof  racing 
with  the  wind? 

RACHAEL.     The  hurricane  is  still  miles  away. 

MISTRESS  FAWCETT.  Great  God!  How  can 
you  stand  there  and  wait  for  a  hurricane?  Do 
you  realize  that  an  hour,  if  this  old  house  be  not 
strong  enough,  may  see  us  struggling  out  in  those 
roaring  waters?  These  desolate  afflicted  Carib- 
bees !  They  have  tested  my  courage  many  times, 
and  I  can  go  through  this  without  flinching;  but 
I  cannot  stand  that  unnatural  calm  of  yours. 

RACHAEL.  Do  I  seem  calm?  (She  closes  and 
bars  the  window.)  It  is  a  fine  sight.  We  may 
never  have  such  another. 

237 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 

MISTRESS  FAWCETT.     Nor  live  to  know. 

RACHAEL  (her  back  is  still  turned,  as  she  shakes 
and  tests  the  window) .  Well,  what  of  that  ?  Are 
you  so  in  love  with  life  ? 

MISTRESS  FAWCETT.  Even  at  sixty  I  am  in 
no  haste  to  be  blown  out  of  it.  And  if  I  were 
twenty — 

RACHAEL  (turning  suddenly,  and  facing  her 
mother).  At  twenty,  with  forty  years  of  noth- 
ingness before  you,  cut  off  from  all  the  joy  of  life, 
on  an  island  in  the  Caribbean  Sea,  what  then? 
(She  snaps  her  fingers.)  That  for  the  worst  a 
hurricane  can  do! 

MISTRESS  FAWCETT  (uneasily).  Do  not  let 
us  talk  of  personal  things  to-day. 

RACHAEL.     I  never  felt  more  personal. 

MISTRESS  FAWCETT  (looking  at  her  keenly).  I 
believe  you  are  excited. 

RACHAEL  (she  clinches  her  hands  and  brings 
them  up  sharply  to  her  breast).  Excited!  Call 
it  that  if  you  like.  All  my  life  I  have  longed  for 
the  hurricane,  and  now  I  feel  as  if  it  were  coming 
to  me  alone. 

MISTRESS  FAWCETT  (evasively).  I  do  not  al- 
ways understand  you,  Rachael.  You  are  a 
strange  girl. 

RACHAEL  (bursting  through  her  assumed  com- 
posure). Strange?  Because  I  long  to  feel  the 

238 


A    Prologue 

mountain  shaken,  as  I  have  been  shaken  through 
four  terrible  weeks  ?  Because  I  long  to  hear  the 
wind  roar  and  shriek  its  derision  of  man,  make 
his  quaking  soul  forget  every  law  he  ever  knew, 
stamp  upon  him,  grind  him  to  pulp — 

MISTRESS  FAWCETT.  Hush!  What  are  you 
saying?  I  do  not  know  you — "the  ice-plant  of 
the  tropics,"  indeed!  The  electricity  of  this  hur- 
ricane has  bewitched  you. 

RACHAEL.  That  I  will  not  deny.  (She 
laughs.)  But  I  do  deny  that  I  am  not  my- 
self, whether  you  recognize  me  or  not.  Which 
self  that  you  have  seen  do  you  think  my  real  one  ? 
First,  the  dreaming  girl,  in  love  with  books,  the 
sun,  the  sea,  and  a  future  that  no  man  has  written 
in  books ;  then,  while  my  scalp  is  still  aching  from 
my  newly  turned  hair,  I  am  thrust  through  the 
church  doors  into  the  arms  of  a  brute.  A  year 
of  dumb  horror,  and  I  run  from  his  house  in  the 
night,  to  my  one  friend,  the  mother  who — 

MISTRESS  FAWCETT.  Not  another  word!  I 
believed  in  him!  There  wasn't  a  mother  on  St. 
Kitts  who  did  not  envy  me.  No  one  could  have 
imagined — 

RACHAEL.  No  one  but  a  girl  of  sixteen,  to 
•whom  no  one  would  listen — 

MISTRESS  FAWCETT.  I  commanded  you  to 
hush. 

239 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 

RACHAEL.  Command  the  hurricane!  I  will 
speak! 

MISTRESS  FAWCETT.  Very  well,  speak.  It 
may  be  our  last  hour — who  knows?  (She  seats 
herself,  sets  her  lips,  and  presses  her  hands  hard 
on  the  handle  of  her  crutch.) 

RACHAEL.  Did  you  think  you  knew  me  in  the 
two  years  that  followed,  years  when  I  was  as 
speechless  as  while  in  bondage  to  John  La  vine, 
when  I  crouched  in  the  dark  corners,  fearing  the 
light,  the  sound  of  every  man's  voice?  Then 
health  again,  and  normal  interests,  but  not  hope 
— not  hope!  At  nineteen  I  had  lived  too  long! 
You  are  sixty,  and  you  have  not  the  vaguest  idea 
what  that  means!  Then,  four  weeks  ago- 

MISTRESS  FAWCETT.    Ah! 

RACHAEL.  James  Hamilton  came.  Ah,  how 
unprepared  I  was!  That  I — I  should  ever  look 
upon  another  man  except  with  loathing!  Sixty 
and  twenty — perhaps  somewhere  between  is  the 
age  of  wisdom !  And  the  law  holds  me  fast  to  a 
man  who  is  not  fit  to  live !  All  nature  awoke  in 
me  and  sang  the  hour  I  met  Hamilton.  For  the 
first  time  I  loved  children,  and  longed  for  them. 
For  the  first  time  I  saw  God  in  man.  For  the 
first  time  the  future  seemed  vast,  interminable, 
yet  all  too  short.  And  if  I  go  to  this  man  who 
has  made  me  feel  great  and  wonderful  enough  to 

240 


A    Prologue 

bear  a  demi-god,  a  wretch  can  divorce  and  dis- 
grace me!  Oh,  these  four  terrible  weeks — ecsta- 
sy, despair — ecstasy,  despair — and  to  the  world 
as  unblinking  as  a  marble  in  a  museum !  Do  you 
wonder  that  I  welcome  the  hurricane,  in  which  no 
man  dare  think  of  any  but  his  puny  self?  For 
the  moment  I  am  free,  and  as  alive,  as  trium- 
phant as  that  great  wind  outside — as  eager  to 
devastate,  to  fight,  to  conquer,  to  live — to  live — 
to  live.  What  do  I  care  for  civilization?  If 
James  Hamilton  were  out  there  among  the  flying 
trees  and  called  to  me,  I  would  go.  Hark!  Lis- 
ten! Is  it  not  magnificent? 

[The  hurricane  is  nearer  and  louder.  The  ap- 
proaching roar  is  varied  by  sudden  tremendous 
gusts,  the  hissing  and  splashing  of  water,  the 
howling  of  negroes  and  dogs,  the  wild  pealing  of 
bells.  In  the  room  below  is  heard  the  noise  of 
many  trampling  feet,  slamming  of  windows,  and 
smothered  exclamations.] 

MISTRESS  FAWCETT.  The  negroes  have  taken 
refuge  in  the  cellar — every  one  of  them,  beyond  a 
doubt,  two  hundred  and  more!  God  grant  they 
do  not  die  of  fright  or  suffocation.  It  is  useless 
to  attempt  to  coax  them  up  here.  These  only 
wait  until  our  backs  are  turned.  Look! 

[The  slaves  have  crawled  to  the  door  on  the 
left.  They  are  livid.  Their  tongues  hang  out. 

241 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 

Rachael  runs  forward,  seizes  them  by  their  long 
hair,  and  administers  a  severe  shaking.] 

RACHAEL.  Wake  up!  Wake  up!  We  need 
your  help.  The  windows  must  be  watched  every 
moment. 

[A  terrible  gust  shakes  the  house.  As  Rachael 
relaxes  her  hold,  the  slaves  collapse  again,  but 
clutch  at  her  skirts,  mumbling  and  wailing. 
Rachael  gazes  at  them  a  moment,  makes  a  motion 
as  if  to  spurn  them  with  her  foot,  then  shrugs  her 
shoulders  and  opens  the  door.] 

RACHAEL.  Go.  Die  in  your  own  way.  May 
I  be  granted  the  same  privilege  some  day. 

[The  slaves  stumble  out.] 

MISTRESS  FAWCETT.  I  see  you  recognize  no 
will  but  your  own  to-night.  They  are  my  slaves, 
and  I  had  bidden  them  stay.  But  in  truth  they 
are  useless ;  and  as  for  you — have  your  little  hour. 
I  embittered  too  many.  It  may  be  your  last. 
And — thank  God! — Hamilton  is  not  here. 

RACHAEL  (with  great  agitation) .  Where  is  he  ? 
At  sea?  Riding  over  the  mountain — far  from 
shelter — 

MISTRESS  FAWCETT.  Trust  any  man  to  take 
care  of  himself,  let  alone  a  Scot.  No  doubt  he  is 
over  on  St.  Kitts,  brewing  swizzle  with  Will 
Hamilton.  Will's  house  is  one  of  the  strongest 
in  the  Caribbees.  Look! 

242 


A    Prologue 

[One  of  the  heavy  shutters  has  been  forced 
open  by  the  wind,  which  has  shattered  the  outer 
glass.  Leaves  and  glass  fly  into  the  room. 
Rachael  and  her  mother  hurl  themselves  against 
the  heavy  wooden  blind.  By  exerting  all  their 
strength  they  succeed  in  fastening  it  again.  Then 
they  examine  the  other  window.  Mistress  Faw- 
cett  sits  down,  panting,  holding  her  hand  to  her 
heart.] 

RACHAEL.  I  will  see  to  the  other  windows. 
(She  runs  out  of  the  room.) 

MISTRESS  FAWCETT.  If  she  knew  that  Hamil- 
ton was  on  Nevis  an  hour  before  the  guns  were 
fired!  As  like  as  not  he  helped  to  fire  them,  for 
he  is  a  guest  at  the  Fort.  If  I  had  not  commanded 
him  to  go  when  he  came  this  afternoon,  he  would 
be  here  now.  Thank  heaven,  no  man  could 
breast  this  hurricane  and  live!  I  know  her!  I 
know  her — little  as  she  thinks  it!  Will  she  con- 
tinue to  obey  me?  And  after  I  am  dead?  Ah! 
Do  I  allow  myself  to  fear  aught  in  this  hurricane, 
I  shall  never  see  the  morning.  (She  presses  her 
hand  hard  against  her  heart,  and  composes  her- 
self.) 

[Rachael  returns.  She  pours  out  a  drink  and 
forces  her  mother  to  take  it,  while  her  own  head 
is  erect  and  listening.  Her  nostrils  dilate;  one 
can  almost  see  her  ears  quiver.  The  wind  in- 

243 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 

creases  every  moment  in  violence.  In  it  may 
now  be  heard  a  peculiar  monotonous  rattle,  the 
agitation  of  seeds  in  the  dry  pods  of  the  "  giant" 
tree.] 

RACHAEL.  Did  you  see  ?  I  had  but  a  glimpse, 
but  hours  could  not  have  made  the  picture  more 
vivid.  I  could  see  the  great  wind.  The  tops  of 
the  palms  are  flying  about  like  Brobdingnagian 
birds,  their  long  blades  darting  out  like  infuriated 
tongues.  I  saw  the  oranges  flung  about  in  a 
great  game  of  battledore  and  shuttlecock — as  if 
the  hurricane  remembered  to  play  in  its  fury!  I 
saw  men  shrieking  at  the  masts  of  a  ship.  Their 
puny  lives!  Why  are  they  not  glad  to  die  so 
splendid  a  death? 

MISTRESS  FAWCETT.  Thank  God,  Hamilton  is 
not  here! 

RACHAEL.  I  tell  you  that,  if  he  were,  the 
greatest  man  of  his  time  would  one  day  call  you 
grandam. 

MISTRESS  FAWCETT  (rising  with  energy).  Hark 
ye,  Rachael!  Calm  yourself!  You  have  had 
your  hour  of  wildness.  I  understand  your  mood 
— the  relief,  the  delight  to  give  to  the  storm  what 
you  cannot  give  to  Hamilton.  But  enough!  I 
can  stand  no  more.  I  am  old.  My  heart  is 
nearly  worn  out.  If  the  storm  unnerves  me,  I 
am  undone. 

244 


A    Prologue 

RACHAEL.  Very  well,  mother.  I  will  put  my 
soul  back  in  its  coffin — if  I  can.  This  is  a  fa- 
vorable moment.  There  is  a  lull. 

MISTRESS  FAWCETT  (she  seats  herself  again). 
Come  here,  Rachael.  (Rachael,  who  has  ap- 
parently calmed  herself,  approaches  and  stands 
beside  her  mother.  She  tenderly  rearranges  the 
old  woman's  hair,  which  fell  from  her  cap  during 
her  struggle  with  the  blind.)  Rachael,  these 
hours,  I  repeat,  may  be  our  last  on  earth.  This 
house  is  old.  The  hurricane  may  uproot  it. 
Like  you,  I  am  not  afraid  to  die.  Indeed,  I 
should  welcome  death  to-night  if  I  could  take 
you  with  me.  Bitterer  than  any  pain  has  been 
the  thought  of  leaving  you  alone  in  the  world. 
I  am  glad  you  have  broken  the  silence  you  im- 
posed. I  never  could  have  broken  it.  I  ask 
you  now  to  forgive  me,  and  I  acknowledge  that 
I  alone  was  responsible  for  the  tragedy  of  your 
married  life.  That  I  was  deceived  is  no  excuse. 
I  am  reckoned  more  astute  than  most.  I  should 
have  known  that  behind  that  white  and  purring 
exterior  was  a  cruel  and  hideous  voluptuary. 
But  I  had  known  Danes  all  my  life,  and  respected 
them,  and  you  were  the  child  of  my  old  age.  I 
knew  that  I  had  not  long  to  live.  But  I  am  not 
making  excuses.  I  ask  you  humbly  to  forgive 
me. 

17  245 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 

RACHAEL.  Forgive  you!  I  have  been  bred 
in  philosophy,  and  I  have  always  loved  you  per- 
fectly. 

MISTRESS  FAWCETT.  Ah!  I  did  not  know. 
Until  to-night  you  have  been  so  reticent.  And 
silent  people  think — think— 

RACHAEL.  I  have  thought,  but  never  to  blame 
you.  And  what  is  past  is  past.  I  waste  no 
time  on  what  cannot  be  undone.  The  soul  must 
have  its  education,  and  part  of  that  is  to  be  torn 
up  by  the  roots,  trampled,  beaten,  crucified.  Let 
me  hope  that,  having  had  that  course  at  the  be- 
ginning of  my  life,  I  have  had  it  once  for  all. 

MISTRESS  FAWCETT.  There  are  worse  things 
than  a  loveless  marriage  with  a  brute.  One  is 
to  love  a  man  you  cannot  marry,  and  be  cast 
aside  by  him,  while  your  heart  is  still  alive  with 
the  love  he  has  sloughed  off  like  an  old  skin  that 
has  begun  to  chafe.  And  then,  without  friends— 
with  children,  perhaps,  the  world  snatching  at 
its  skirts  as  it  passes  you — the  uncommon  and 
terrible  disgrace  of  divorce.  Rachael! — will  you 
not  promise  me — 

RACHAEL.  I  promise  you  this — in  normal 
mood,  I  will  think  of  you  first.  But,  do  I  ever 
meet  Hamilton  when  I  feel  as  I  do  to-night,  I 
should  not  think — not  think,  I  say — not  think 
nor  care!  Am  I  like  those  cattle  in  the  cellar? 

246 


A    Prologue 

Did  not  Nature  fashion  me  to  love  and  hate,  to 
create  and  suffer — to  feel  as  she  does  to-night  ? 

MISTRESS  FAWCETT  (with  a  long  sigh).  Thank 
heaven,  Hamilton  is  not  here!  Ah! 

RACHAEL.     Yes,  it  comes  again. 

[The  hurricane  bursts  with  renewed  fury.  The 
concussions  are  like  the  impact  of  artillery.  Hail 
rattles  on  the  roof.  Trees  and  roofs  crash  against 
one  another  in  mid-air.  Suddenly  the  house 
springs  and  rocks.  Simultaneously  there  is  a 
long  horrid  shriek  from  the  negroes  in  the 
cellar.] 

RACHAEL.  Has  Nevis  been  torn  from  her 
foundations  ? 

MISTRESS  FAWCETT.  It  was  an  earthquake. 
A  hurricane  tugs  at  the  very  roots  of  the  earth. 
Pray  heaven  that  the  fires  in  Nevis  are  out.  But 
we  have  no  time  to  think  on  imaginary  horrors. 
Look  to  the  windows.  (As  Rachael  examines 
the  windows,  Mistress  Fawcett  thrusts  her  head 
towards  the  outer  door,  as  if  listening  in  an  agony 
of  apprehension.  She  raises  herself  from  the 
chair,  her  eyes  expanded,  but  keeps  her  face 
turned  from  Rachael,  and  says,  steadily) :  I  think 
I  hear  the  rattle  of  a  shutter  in  the  dining-room. 
Run  and  see.  And  examine  all  the  other  win- 
dows before  you  return.  Remember  that  if  the 
wind  gets  in,  the  roof  will  go.  (Rachael  runs 

247 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 

out  of  the  room.  Immediately  after  there  is  a 
loud  knocking  at  the  front  door,  which  is  on  the 
side  of  the  house  at  present  sheltered  from  the 
direct  attack  of  the  storm.  Mistress  Fawcett 
hobbles  forward  and  secures  more  firmly  the  iron 
bar,  making  it  impossible  for  an  outsider  to  force 
his  way  in.) 

MISTRESS  FAWCETT.    Who  is  there? 

A  Voice  without.     It  is  I — James  Hamilton. 

MISTRESS  FAWCETT.    You  cannot  enter. 

HAMILTON.  Not  enter?  I  have  braved  death, 
and  worse,  to  come  to  you,  knowing  that  you  were 
alone.  Nor  would  you  leave  a  dog  out  on  such  a 
day. 

MISTRESS  FAWCETT.  I  would  open  to  the  most 
desperate  criminal  in  the  islands,  but  not  to  you. 
Go!  Go!  At  once!  (She  turns  her  head  in 
great  anxiety  towards  the  long  line  of  rooms  where 
Rachael  is  examining  the  windows.)  Surely  she 
cannot  hear  us ;  the  wind  is  too  great.  (Raising 
her  voice  again.)  You  cannot  enter.  If  my 
daughter  opens  the  door  to  you,  it  will  be  after 
violence  to  me.  Now  will  you  go — or,  at  least, 
make  no  further  sign?  You  are  welcome  to  the 
shelter  of  the  veranda  until  the  hurricane  veers, 
when  you  can  take  refuge  in  an  outhouse. 

HAMILTON.  You  have  not  an  outhouse  on  the 
estate.  Not  one  stone  is  upon  another,  except 

248 


A    Prologue 

in  this  house.     Hardly  a  tree  is  standing.     If 
you  send  me  away,  it  is  to  certain  death. 

MISTRESS  FAWCETT  (in  a  tone  of  great  distress) . 
What  shall  I  do  ?  I  do  not  wish' you  so  ill  as  that. 
If  I  admit  you,  will  you  let  me  hide  you  ?  Prom- 
ise me  not  to  reveal  yourself  to  Rachael? 

HAMILTON.     I  will  not  promise. 

[Rachael  enters.  She  raises  her  head  with  a 
quick  half -comprehending  motion.] 

RACHAEL.     Who  is  out  there? 

MISTRESS  FAWCETT  (she  turns  sharply,  draws 
herself  up,  and  places  her  back  to  the  door). 
James  Hamilton. 

RACHAEL.  Ah!  (She  is  about  to  advance 
quickly,  when  she  notes  the  significance  of  her 
mother's  face  and  attitude.)  Let  him  in! 

MISTRESS  FAWCETT.     No. 

RACHAEL.  It  is  not  possible!  You?  Why, 
he  must  be  half  dead.  But,  of  course,  you  are 
only  waiting  to  extract  a  promise  from  me. 

MISTRESS  FAWCETT.     Will  you  make  it  ? 

RACHAEL.     No. 

MISTRESS  FAWCETT.  Then  he  can  die  out 
there  in  the  storm.  (Rachael  laughs,  and  ap- 
proaches her  swiftly.  Mistress  Fawcett  raises 
her  hand  warningly.)  I  shall  struggle  with  you, 
and  you  know  that  will  mean  my  death.  You 
may  choose  between  us.  (Rachael  utters  a  cry, 

249 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 

and  covers  her  face  with  her  hands.  Hamilton 
throws  himself  against  the  door  with  violence, 
but  the  iron  bar  guards  it.) 

HAMILTON.  The  hurricane  is  veering,  Mistress 
Fawcett.  Do  not  you  hear  the  absolute  stillness  ? 
In  a  few  moments  it  will  burst  out  of  the  west 
with  increased  fury.  Unless  you  admit  me,  I 
shall  stay  here  and  meet  it.  I  have  crawled  here, 
wriggled  here,  like  a  snake.  It  has  taken  me 
two  hours  to  cover  half  a  mile.  I  shall  not  crawl 
back.  I  came  here  to  protect  Rachael — to  die 
with  her,  if  inevitable— 

MISTRESS  FAWCETT.     Or  to  ruin  her  life. 

HAMILTON.    That  is  done. 

MISTRESS  FAWCETT.  True;  but  I  can  protect 
her  from  worse. 

RACHAEL.  Very  well !  You  can  keep  him  out. 
You  cannot  keep  me  in.  I  shall  not  struggle  with 
you;  nor  will  I  admit  any  one  to  your  house 
against  your  will.  But  if  you  do  not  open  that 
door — at  once — I  go  out  by  another. 

MISTRESS  FAWCETT.  Rachael!  Do  I  count 
for  nothing?  I  have  loved  you  so!  Is  this  all 
you  have  to  give  me  in  return? 

RACHAEL.  I  know  your  motive — your  love. 
I  misprize  neither.  But  if  women  loved  their 
mothers  better  than  the  man  of  their  hearts  there 
would  be  the  end  of  the  race.  And  what  is  the 

250 


A    Prologue 

will  of  either  of  us  against  Fate?  Cannot  you 
understand?  Why  was  he  permitted  to  reach 
me  to-night  ?  What  man  has  ever  lived  through 
a  hurricane  before  ?  Nature  has  held  her  breath 
to  let  him  pass.  Do  you  suppose  your  puny 
strength  can  hold  us  apart?  Quick!  Answer! 
(She  half  turns  towards  the  door  leading  into  the 
next  room.) 

MISTRESS  FAWCETT.  You  have  conquered. 
But  wait  until  I  am  out  of  this  room.  (She  falls 
heavily  on  her  crutch,  and  hobbles  out.  Rachael 
holds  her  breath  until  the  door  closes  behind  her, 
then  runs  forward  and  lowers  the  bar.  Hamil- 
ton enters.  He  is  hatless.  His  long  cape  is  torn 
and  covered  with  leaves  and  mould.  He  closes 
and  bars  the  door  behind  him,  and  Rachael,  see- 
ing him  safe,  and  her  desire  so  near  to  fulfilment, 
experiences  a  revulsion  of  feeling.  She  falls 
back,  and  hurriedly  fetching  a  pan  of  coals  from 
a  corner,  fires  them,  and  mixes  a  punch.) 

RACHAEL  (hurriedly).  You  are  cold.  You  are 
exhausted.  In  a  moment  I  will  give  you  a  hot 
drink. 

[Hamilton,  after  a  long  look  at  her,  throws  him- 
self into  a  chair  by  the  table,  and  stares  at  the 
floor,  his  hand  at  his  head.] 

HAMILTON.  Thank  you.  I  need  it.  I  feel  as 
if  all  the  hurricane  were  in  my  head. 

251 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 

RACHABL  (pouring  the  punch  into  a  silver  gob- 
let). Drink. 

HAMILTON.  Gratefully!  (He  raises  the  gob- 
let.) I  drink — to  the  hurricane. 

RACHAEL  (she  moves  restlessly  about,  but  re- 
mains on  the  other  side  of  the  table).  Tell  me  of 
your  journey  here.  I  should  think  you  would 
be  gray  and  old!  Ah,  the  color  comes  back  to 
your  face!  You  are  young  again,  already. 

HAMILTON  (he  has  drained  the  goblet  and  set 
it  on  the  table;  he  rises,  and  looks  full  at  her). 
Did  you  doubt  that  I  would  come? 

RACHAEL  (speaking  lightly,  and  averting  her 
eyes).  I  thought  you  were  on  St.  Kitts. 

HAMILTON  (vehemently).  Still  I  would  have 
come.  I  knew  the  hurricane  would  give  you  to 
me.  And  out  there,  fighting  inch  by  inch,  the 
breath  beaten  out  of  my  body,  my  arms  almost 
torn  from  their  sockets,  maddened  by  the  terrible 
confusion,  I  still  knew  that  Nature  was  driving 
me  to  you,  as  she  has  separated  us  since  the  day 
I  came,  with  her  smiling,  intolerable  calm— 

RACHAEL  (still  half  frivolous  under  the  sudden 
wrench  from  tragic  despair).  And,  after  that 
terrible  experience,  you  still  have  love  and  ro- 
mance in  you!  I  should  want  a  warm  bed,  and 
then — to-morrow — to-morrow — we  will  sit  on  the 
terrace  and  watch  the  calm  old  sun  go  down  into 

252 


A    Prologue 

the  calm  old  sea,  with  not  a  thought  for  the  torn 
old  earth— 

HAMILTON.  Rachael!  I  did  not  come  here 
to  jest. 

RACHAEL.  I  must  go  to  my  mother!  She  is 
alone !  What  have  I  done  ? 

HAMILTON.  Stay  where  you  are!  Do  you 
mean  that  you  wish  you  had  not  opened  the 
door? 

RACHAEL  (she  hesitates  a  moment,  then  raises 
her  eyes  to  his,  and  answers  distinctly).  No! 
(She  is  leaning  on  the  table,  which  she  has  deliber- 
ately kept  between  them.  Hamilton  throws  him- 
self into  his  chair,  and,  leaning  forward,  clasps 
her  wrists  with  his  hands.) 

HAMILTON.  This  hurricane  is  the  end  of  all 
things,  or  the  beginning. 

RACHAEL  (she  throws  her  head  back,  with  a 
gesture  of  triumph).  The  beginning! 

HAMILTON.  Yes,  the  storm  has  come  as  a 
friend,  not  as  an  enemy,  no  matter  which  way — 
no  matter  which  way.  (He  speaks  hoarsely  and 
slowly.  There  is  a  silence,  during  which  they 
stare  at  each  other  until  both  are  breathless,  and 
the  table,  under  the  pressure  of  Hamilton's  arms, 
slowly  slips  aside.) 

RACHAEL.     Hark! 

HAMILTON.     Yes ;  the  storm  returns. 
253 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 

[Without  further  warning,  the  hurricane  bursts 
out  of.  the  west  with  the  fury  of  recuperated 
power.  The  house  trembles.  The  slaves  screech 
in  the  cellar.  A  deluge  of  water  descends  on 
the  roof.  The  confusion  waxes  louder  and 
louder,  until  it  seems  as  if  the  noise  alone  must 
grind  all  things  to  dust.  Hamilton  thrusts  aside 
the  table,  and  takes  Rachael  violently  in  his 
arms.  Her  laugh  of  delight  and  triumph  blends 
curiously  with  the  furious  noise  of  the  hurri- 
cane.] 


X 

Talbot    of   Ursula 

(This  story  first  appeared  in  the  Anglo-Saxon  Review,  and  is  republished  by 
kind  permission  of  Mrs.  George  Cornwallis-West) 


Talbot    of   Ursula 


>HE  Senora  as  usual  had  written 
a  formal  little  note  in  the  morn- 
ing asking  John  Talbot  to  eat 
his  birthday  dinner  at  the 
Rancho  de  los  Olivos.  Although 
he  called  on  the  Senora  once  a 
week  the  year  round,  she  never  offered  him  more 
than  a  glass  of  angelica  or  a  cup  of  chocolate  on 
any  other  occasion;  but  for  his  natal  day  she 
had  a  turkey  killed,  and  her  aged  cook  prepared 
so  many  hot  dishes  and  dulces  of  the  old  time 
that  Talbot  was  a  wretched  man  for  three  days. 
But  he  would  have  endured  misery  for  six  rather 
than  forego  this  feast,  and  the  brief  embrace  of 
home  life  that  accompanied  it. 

The  Senora  and  the  padre  of  the  Mission  were 
Talbot's  only  companions  in  Santa  Ursula,  al- 
though for  political  reasons  he  often  dropped  in 

257 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 

at  the  saloon  of  the  village  and  discussed  with  its 
polyglot  customers  such  affairs  of  the  day  as  pen- 
etrated this  remote  corner  of  California.  And 
yet  for  twenty-three  years  he  had  lived  in  Santa 
Ursula,  year  in  and  year  out,  save  for  brief  visits 
to  San  Francisco,  Sacramento,  and  the  Southern 
towns. 

Why  had  he  stayed  on  in  this  God-forsaken 
hole  af  ter  he  had  become  a  rich  man  ?  He  asked 
himself  the  question  with  some  humor  as  he  walked 
up  and  down  the  corridor  of  the  Mission  on  this  his 
fortieth  birthday ;  and  he  had  asked  it  many  times. 

To  some  souls  the  perfect  peace,  the  warm 
drowsy  beauty  of  the  scene  would  have  been  a 
conclusive  answer.  Two  friars  in  their  brown 
robes  passed  and  repassed  him,  reading  their 
prayers.  Beyond  the  arches  of  the  corridor, 
abruptly  below  the  plateau  on  which  stood  the 
long  white  Mission,  was,  so  far  as  the  eye  was 
responsible,  an  illimitable  valley,  cutting  the 
horizon  on  the  south  and  west,  cut  by  the  moun- 
tains of  Santa  Barbara  on  the  east.  The  sun  was 
brazen  in  a  dark-blue  sky,  and  under  its  down- 
pour the  vast  olive  orchard  which  covered  the 
valley  looked  like  a  silver  sea.  The  glittering 
ripples  met  the  blue  of  the  horizon  sharply, 
crinkled  against  the  lower  spurs  of  the  mountain. 
As  a  bird  that  had  skimmed  its  surface,  then 

258 


Talbot    of   Ursula 

plunged  for  a  moment,  rose  again,  Talbot  almost 
expected  to  see  it  shake  bright  drops  from  its 
wings.  He  sighed  involuntarily  as  he  reflected 
that  in  the  dark  caves  and  arbors  below  it  was 
very  cool,  far  cooler  than  he  would  be  during  an 
eight-mile  ride  under  the  mid-day  sun  of  South- 
ern California.  Then  he  remembered  that  the 
Senora's  sola  was  also  dark  and  cool,  and  that  part 
of  his  way  lay  through  the  cotton-woods  and 
willows  by  the  river;  and  he  smiled  whimsically 
again.  He  had  salted  his  long  sojourn  at  Santa 
Ursula  with  much  philosophy. 

One  mountain-peak,  detached  from  the  range 
and  within  a  mile  of  the  Mission,  was  dense  and 
dark  with  forest,  broken  only  here  and  there 
by  the  bowlders  the  earth  had  flung  on  high  in 
her  restless  youth.  There  was  but  a  winding 
trail  to  the  top,  and  few  had  made  acquaintance 
with  it.  John  Talbot  knew  it  well,  and  that  to 
which  it  led — a  lake  in  the  very  cup  of  the  peak, 
so  clear  and  bright  that  it  reflected  every  needle 
of  the  dark  pines  embracing  it. 

And  to  the  west  of  the  Mission — past  the  river 
with  its  fringe  of  cotton-woods  and  willows,  be- 
yond a  long  dusty  road  which  led  through  fields 
and  canon  and  over  more  than  one  hill — was  the 
old  adobe  house  of  the  Rancho  de  los  Olivos. 

Talbot  was  a  practical  man  of  business  to- 
259 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 

day.  The  olive  orchard  was  his,  the  toy  hotel 
at  the  end  of  the  plateau,  the  land  upon  which  had 
grown  the  rough  village,  with  its  one  store,  its 
prosperous  saloon,  its  post-office,  and  several 
shanties  of  citizens  not  altogether  estimable.  He 
was  also  a  man  of  affairs,  for  he  had  represented 
the  district  for  two  years  at  the  State  Legislature, 
and  was  spoken  of  as  a  future  Senator.  It  can- 
not be  said  that  the  people  among  whom  he  had 
spent  so  many  years  of  his  life  loved  him,  for  he 
was  reserved  and  had  never  been  known  to  slap 
a  man  on  the  back.  Moreover,  it  was  believed 
that  he  subscribed  to  a  San  Francisco  daily  paper, 
which  he  did  not  place  on  file  in  the  saloon,  and 
that  he  had  a  large  library  of  books  in  one  of  his 
rooms  at  the  Mission.  As  far  as  the  neighbors 
could  see,  the  priest  was  the  only  man  in  the  dis- 
trict in  whom  he  found  companionship.  Never- 
theless he  was  respected  and  trusted  as  a  man 
must  be  who  has  never  broken  his  word  nor  taken 
advantage  of  another  for  twenty-three  years ;  and 
even  those  who  resented  the  manifest  antago- 
nism of  his  back  to  the  national  familiarity  felt 
that  the  dignity  and  interest  of  the  State  would 
be  safe  in  his  hands.  Even  those  most  in  favor 
of  rotation  had  concluded  that  it  would  not  be  a 
bad  idea  to  put  him  in  Congress  for  life,  after  the 
tacit  fashion  of  the  New  England  States.  At  all 

260 


Talbot    of    Ursula 

events  they  would  try  him  in  the  House  of  Rep- 
resentatives for  two  or  three  terms,  and  then,  if 
he  satisfied  their  expectations  and  demonstrated 
his  usefulness,  they  would  "work"  the  State 
and  send  him  to  the  United  States  Senate.  Santa 
Ursula  had  but  one  street,  but  its  saloon  was  the 
heart  of  a  hundred-mile  radius.  And  it  was  as 
proud  as  an  old  don.  When  its  leading  citizen  be- 
came known  far  and  wide  as  "  Talbot  of  Ursula," 
a  title  conferred  by  the  members  of  his  Legislat- 
ure to  distinguish  him  from  two  colleagues  of  the 
same  name,  its  pride  in  him  knew  no  bounds. 
The  local  papers  found  it  an  effective  head-line, 
and  the  title  clung  to  him  for  the  rest  of  his  life. 
It  was  only  when  a  newspaper  interviewed 
Talbot  after  his  election  to  the  State  Senate  that 
his  district  learned  that  he  was  by  birth  an  Eng- 
lishman. He  had  emigrated  with  his  parents  at 
the  age  of  fourteen,  however,  and  as  the  popula- 
tion of  his  district  included  Germans,  Irish, 
Swedes,  Mexicans,  and  Italians,  his  nationality 
mattered  little.  Moreover,  he  had  made  his  own 
fortune,  barring  the  start  his  uncle  had  given  him, 
and  he  was  an  American  every  inch  of  him. 
England  w^as  but  a  peaceful  dream,  a  vale  of  the 
hereafter's  rest  set  at  the  wrong  end  of  life.  He 
recalled  but  one  incident  of  that  time,  but  on 
that  incident  his  whole  life  had  hinged. 

18  261 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 

It  was  some  years  now  since  it  had  grouped 
itself,  a  tableau  of  gray  ghosts,  in  his  memory, 
but  he  invoked  it  to-day,  although  it  seemed  to 
have  no  place  in  the  hot  languid  morning  with 
that  Southern  sea  hiding  its  bitter  fruit  breaking 
almost  at  the  feet  of  this  long  white  red -tiled 
Mission  whose  silver  bells  had  once  called  hun- 
dreds of  Indians  to  prayer.  (They  rang  with 
vehemence  still,  but  few  responded.)  Neverthe- 
less the  memory  rose  and  held  him. 

His  mother,  a  widow,  had  kept  a  little  shop  in 
his  native  village.  He  had  gone  to  school  since 
the  tender  age  of  five,  and  had  paid  more  atten- 
tion to  his  books  than  to  the  village  battle-ground, 
for  he  grew  rapidly,  and  was  very  delicate  until 
the  change  to  the  new  world  made  a  man  of  him. 
But  he  loved  his  books,  the  other  boys  were  kind 
to  him,  and  altogether  he  was  not  ill-pleased  with 
his  life  when  one  day  his  mother  bade  him  put  on 
his  best  clothes  and  come  with  her  to  a  wedding. 
He  grumbled  disdainfully,  for  he  had  an  inter- 
esting book  in  his  hand ;  but  he  was  used  to  obey 
his  mother;  he  tumbled  into  his  Sunday  clothes 
and  followed  .her  and  other  dames  to  the  old 
stone  church  at  the  top  of  the  village.  The 
daughter  of  the  great  family  of  the  neighbor- 
hood was  to  be  married  that  morning,  and  all  the 
little  girls  of  John's  acquaintance  were  dressed  in 

262 


Talbot    of   Ursula 

white  and  had  strewn  flowers  along  the  main 
street  and  the  road  beyond  as  far  as  the  castle 
gates.  He  thought  it  a  silly  business  and  a  sin- 
ful waste  of  posies;  but  in  the  church-yard  he 
took  his  place  in  the  throng  with  a  certain  feeling 
of  curiosity. 

The  bride  happened  to  be  one  of  the  beauties 
of  her  time;  but  it  was  not  so  much  her  beauty 
that  made  John  stare  at  her  with  expanding  eyes 
and  mouth  as  she  drove  up  in  an  open  carriage, 
then  walked  down  the  long  path  from  the  gate 
to  the  church.  He  had  seen  beauty  before;  but 
never  that  look  and  air  of  a  race  far  above  his 
own,  of  light  impertinent  pride,  never  a  lissome 
daintily  stepping  figure,  and  a  head  carried  as  if  it 
bore  a  star  rather  than  a  bridal  wreath.  He  had 
not  dreamed  of  anything  alive  resembling  this, 
and  he  knew  she  was  not  an  angel.  After  she 
had  entered  the  church  he  drew  a  long  breath  and 
glanced  sharply  at  the  village  beauties.  They 
looked  like  coarse  red  apples ;  and,  alas,  his  mother 
was  of  their  world. 

When  the  bride  reappeared  he  stared  hard  at 
her  again,  but  this  time  he  noticed  that  there  were 
similar  delicate  beings  in  her  train.  She  was  not 
the  only  one  of  her  kind,  then.  The  discovery 
filled  him  with  amazement,  which  was  followed 
by  a  curious  sensation  of  hope.  He  broke  away 

263 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 

from  his  mother  and  ran  after  the  carriage  for 
nearly  a  mile,  determined  to  satisfy  his  eager 
eyes  as  long  as  might  be.  The  bride  noticed  him, 
and,  smiling,  tossed  him  a  rose  from  her  bouquet. 
He  had  that  flower  yet. 

It  was  a  week  before  he  confided  to  his  mother 
that  when  he  grew  up  he  intended  to  marry  a 
lady.  Mrs.  Talbot  stared,  then  laughed.  But 
when  he  repeated  the  statement  a  few  evenings 
later  during  their  familiar  hour,  she  told  him 
peremptorily  to  put  such  ideas  out  of  his  head, 
that  the  likes  of  him  didn't  marry  ladies.  And 
when  she  explained  why,  with  the  brutal  direct- 
ness she  thought  necessary,  John  was  as  depressed 
as  a  boy  of  fourteen  can  be.  It  was  but  a  week 
later,  however,  that  his  mother,  upon  announc- 
ing her  determination  to  emigrate  to  America, 
said  to  him:  "And  perhaps  you'll  get  that  grand 
wish  of  yours.  Out  there  I've  heard  say  as  how 
one  body's  as  good  as  another,  so  if  you're  a  good 
boy  and  make  plenty  of  brass,  you  can  marry  a 
lady  as  well  as  not."  She  forgot  the  words  im- 
mediately, but  John  never  forgot  them. 

Mrs.  Talbot  died  soon  after  their  arrival  in 
New  York,  and  the  brother  who  had  sent  for  her 
put  John  to  school  for  two  years.  One  day  he 
told  him  to  pack  his  trunk  and  accompany  him 
to  California  in  search  of  gold.  They  bought  a 

264 


Talbot    of    Ursula 

comfortable  emigrant  wagon  and  joined  a  large 
party  about  to  cross  the  plains  in  quest  of  El 
Dorado.  During  that  long  momentous  journey 
John  felt  like  a  character  in  a  book  of  adventures, 
for  they  had  no  less  than  three  encounters  with 
red  Indians,  and  two  of  his  party  were  scalped. 
He  always  felt  young  again  when  he  recalled  that 
time.  It  was  one  of  those  episodes  in  life  when 
everything  was  exactly  as  it  should  be. 

He  and  his  uncle  remained  in  the  San  Joaquin 
valley  for  a  year,  and  although  they  were  not  so 
fortunate  as  many  others,  they  finally  moved  to 
San  Francisco  the  richer  by  a  few  thousands. 
Here  Mr.  Quick  opened  a  gambling-house  and 
saloon,  and  made  money  far  more  rapidly  than 
he  had  done  in  the  northern  valley — where,  in 
truth,  he  had  lost  much  by  night  that  he  had 
panned  out  by  day.  But  being  a  virtuous  uncle, 
if  an  imperfect  member  of  society,  he  soon  sent 
John  to  the  country  to  look  after  a  ranch  near 
the  Mission  of  Santa  Ursula.  The  young  man 
never  knew  that  this  fine  piece  of  property  had 
been  won  over  the  gambling  table  from  Don 
Roberto  Ortega,  one  of  the  maddest  grandees  of 
the  Calif ornias.  His  grant  embraced  some  fifty 
thousand  acres  and  was  bright  in  patches  with 
little  olive  orchards.  John  planted  with  olive- 
trees,  at  his  own  expense,  the  twelve  thousand 

265 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 

acres  which  had  fallen  to  his  uncle's  share;  the 
two  men  were  to  be  partners,  and  the  younger 
was  to  inherit  the  elder's  share.  He  inherited 
nothing  else,  for  his  uncle  married  a  Mexican 
woman  who  knifed  him  and  made  off  with  what 
little  money  had  been  put  aside  from  current  ex- 
travagances. But  John  worked  hard,  bought 
varas  in  San  Francisco  whenever  he  had  any 
spare  cash,  supplied  almost  the  entire  State  with 
olives  and  olive-oil,  and  in  time  became  a  rich 
man. 

And  his  ideal  ?  Only  the  Indians  had  driven  it 
temporarily  into  the  unused  chambers  of  his 
memory.  Not  gold-mines,  nor  his  brief  taste  of 
the  wild  hot  life  of  San  Francisco,  nor  hard  work 
among  his  olive-trees,  nor  increasing  wealth  and 
importance,  had  driven  from  his  mind  that  de- 
sire born  among  the  tombstones  of  his  native 
village.  It  was  the  woman  herself  with  a  voice 
as  silver  as  his  own  olive  leaves,  who  laughed  his 
dream  to  death,  and  left  him,  still  handsome, 
strong,  and  lightly  touched  by  time,  a  bachelor 
at  forty. 

He  saw  nothing  of  women  for  several  years 
after  he  came  to  the  Mission,  for  the  one  ranch 
house  in  the  neighborhood  was  closed,  and  there 
was  no  village  then.  He  worked  among  his  olive- 
trees  contentedly  enough,  spending  long  profit- 

266 


Talbot    of   Ursula 

able  evenings  with  the  intellectual  priests,  who 
made  him  one  of  their  family,  and  studying  law 
and  his  favorite  science,  political  economy.  Al- 
though the  boy  was  very  handsome,  with  his  sun- 
burned, well-cut  face  and  fine  figure,  it  never  oc- 
curred to  the  priests  that  the  most  romantic  of 
hearts  beat  beneath  that  shrewd,  accumulative 
brain.  Of  women  he  had  never  spoken,  except 
when  he  had  confided  to  his  friends  that  he  was 
glad  to  get  away  from  the  very  sight  of  the  ter- 
rible creatures  of  San  Francisco;  and  that  he 
dreamed  for  hours  among  his  olive-trees  of  the 
thoroughbred  creature  who  was  one  day  to  re- 
ward his  labors  and  make  him  the  happiest  of 
mortals  never  entered  the  imagination  of  the 
good  padres. 

He  was  twenty  and  the  ranch  was  his  when  he 
met  Delfina  Carillc.  Don  Roberto  Ortega  had 
opportunely  died  before  gambling  away  more 
than  half  of  his  estate,  and  his  widow,  who  was 
delicate,  left  the  ranch  near  Monterey,  where 
they  had  lived  for  many  years,  and  came  to  bake 
brown  in  the  hot  suns  of  the  South.  Her  son, 
Don  Enrique,  came  with  her,  and  John  saw  him 
night  and  morning  riding  about  the  country  at 
top  speed,  and  sometimes  clattering  up  to  the 
corridor  of  the  Mission  and  calling,  for  a  glass  of 
wine.  He  was  a  magnificent  caballero,  slim  and 

267 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 

dark,  with  large  melting  eyes  and  long  hair  on  a 
little  head.  He  wore  small-clothes  of  gayly 
colored  silk,  with  much  lace  on  his  shirt  and  silver 
on  his  sombrero.  His  long  yellow  botas  were 
laced  with  silver,  and  his  saddle  was  so  loaded 
with  the  same  metal  that  only  a  Calif  ornian  horse 
could  have  carried  it.  John  turned  up  his  nose 
at  this  gorgeous  apparition,  and  likened  him  to  a 
"play  actor"  and  a  circus  rider;  nevertheless,  he 
was  very  curious  to  see  something  of  the  life  of 
the  Californian  grandee,  of  which  he  had  heard 
much  and  seen  nothing,  and  when  Padre  Ortega, 
who  was  a  cousin  of  the  widow,  told  him  that  a 
large  company  was  expected  within  a  fortnight, 
and  that  he  had  asked  permission  to  take  his 
young  friend  to  the  ball  with  which  the  festivities 
would  open,  John  began  to  indulge  in  the  pleas- 
urable anticipations  of  youth. 

But  he  did  not  occupy  the  interval  with  dreams 
alone.  He  went  to  San  Francisco  and  bought 
himself  a  wardrobe  suitable  for  polite  society. 
It  was  an  American  outfit,  not  Californian,  but 
had  John  possessed  the  wealth  of  the  northern 
valleys  he  could  not  have  been  induced  to  put 
himself  into  silk  and  lace. 

The  stage  did  not  go  to  Santa  Ursula,  but  a 
servant  met  him  at  a  station  twenty  miles  from 
home  with  a  horse,  and  a  cart  for  his  trunk.  He 

268 


Talbot    of   Ursula 

washed  off  the  dust  of  three  days'  travel  in  a 
neighboring  creek,  then  jumped  on  his  big  gray 
mare,  and  started  at  a  mild  gallop  for  his  ranch. 
He  felt  like  singing  his  contentment  with  the 
world,  for  the  morning  was  radiant,  he  was  on  one 
of  the  finest  horses  of  the  country,  and  he  was  as 
light  of  heart  as  a  boy  should  be  who  has  received 
a  hint  from  fortune  that  he  is  one  of  the  favorites. 
He  looked  forward  to  the  social  ordeal  without 
apprehension,  for  by  this  time  he  had  all  the 
native  American's  sense  of  independence,  he  had 
barely  heard  the  word  " gentleman"  since  his  ar- 
rival in  the  new  country,  his  education  was  all 
that  could  be  desired,  he  was  a  landed  proprietor, 
and  intended  to  be  a  rich  and  successful  man. 
No  wonder  he  wanted  to  sing. 

He  had  ridden  some  eight  or  ten  miles,  meeting 
no  one  in  that  great  wilderness  of  early  California, 
when  he  suddenly  drew  rein  and  listened.  He 
was  descending  into  a  narrow  canon  on  whose 
opposite  slope  the  road  continued  to  the  interior ; 
his  way  lay  sharply  to  the  south  when  he  reached 
the  narrow  stream  between  the  walls  of  the  canon. 
The  sound  of  many  voices  came  over  the  hills  op- 
posite, and  the  voices  were  light,  and  young,  and 
gay.  John  remembered  that  it  was  time  for 
Dona  Martina's  visitors  to  arrive,  and  guessed  at 
once  that  he  was  about  to  fall  in  with  one  of  the 

269 


The    Bell   in    the    Fog 

parties.  The  young  Calif ornians  travelled  on 
horseback  in  those  days,  thinking  nothing  of 
forty  miles  under  a  midsummer  sun.  John,  who 
was  the  least  self-conscious  of  mortals,  was  moved 
to  gratitude  that  he  wore  a  new  suit  of  gray  serge 
and  had  left  the  dust  of  stage  travel  in  the  creek. 

The  party  appeared  on  the  crest  of  the  hill,  and 
began  the  descent  into  the  canon.  John  raised 
his  cap,  and  the  caballeros  responded  with  a 
flourish  of  sombreros.  It  would  be  some  mo- 
ments before  they  could  meet,  and  John  was  glad 
to  stare  at  the  brilliant  picture  they  made.  Life 
suddenly  seemed  unreal,  unmodern  to  him.  He 
forgot  his  olive-trees,  and  recalled  the  tales  the 
priests  had  told  him  of  the  pleasures  and  mag- 
nificence of  the  Calif ornian  dons  before  the  Amer- 
ican occupation. 

The  caballeros  were  in  silk,  every  one  of  them, 
and  for  variety  of  hue  they  would  have  put  a 
June  garden  to  the  blush.  Their  linen  and  silver 
were  dazzling,  and  the  gold-colored  coats  of  their 
horses  seemed  a  reflection  of  the  sun.  These 
horses  had  silver  tails  and  manes,  and  seemed 
invented  for  the  brilliant  creatures  who  rode  them. 
The  girls  were  less  gorgeous  than  the  caballeros, 
for  they  wore  delicate  flowered  gowns,  and  a  strip 
of  silk  about  their  heads  instead  of  sombreros 
trimmed  with  silver  eagles .  But  they  filled  John's 

270 


Talbot    of   Ursula 

eye,  and  he  forgot  the  caballeros.  They  had  long 
black  braids  of  hair  and  large  dark  eyes  and  white 
skins,  and  at  that  distance  they  all  looked  beauti- 
ful ;  but  although  John  worshipped  beauty,  even 
in  the  form  of  olive-trees  and  purple  mists,  it  was 
not  the  loveliness  of  these  Spanish  girls  that  set 
his  pulses  beating  and  sent  the  blood  to  his  head. 
This  was  almost  his  first  sight  of  gentlewomen 
since  the  memorable  day  in  his  native  village, 
and  the  certainty  that  his  opportunity  had  come 
at  last  filled  him  with  both  triumph  and  terror  as 
he  spurred  down  the  slope,  then  paused  and 
watched  the  cavalcade  pick  their  way  down 
through  the  golden  grass  and  the  thick  green 
bush  of  the  canon.  In  a  moment  he  recognized 
Don  Enrique  Ortega,  who  spoke  to  him  pleasantly 
enough  as  he  rode  into  the  creek  and  dropped  his 
bridle  that  his  horse  might  drink.  The  two  young 
men  had  met  at  the  Mission,  and  although  En- 
rique regarded  the  conquerors  of  his  country  as 
an  inferior  race,  John  was  as  good  as  any  of  them, 
and  doubtless  it  was  best  to  make  no  enemies. 
Moreover,  his  manners  were  very  good. 

"Ah,  Don  Juan,"  he  exclaimed,  "you  have 
make  the  visit  to  Yerba  Buena — San  Francisco 
you  call  him  now,  no  ?  I  go  this  morning  to  meet 
my  friends  who  make  for  the  Rancho  de  los 
Olivos  so  great  an  honor.  Si  you  permit  me  I 

271 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 

introduce  you,  for  you  are  the  friend  de  my 
cousin,  Padre  Ortega." 

The  company  had  scattered  down  the  stream 
to  refresh  their  horses,  making  a  long  banner  of 
color  in  the  dark  canon.  Don  Enrique  led  John 
along  the  line,  and  presented  him  solemnly  to 
each  in  turn.  The  caballeros  protested  eternal 
friendship  with  vehement  insincerity,  and  the 
girls  flashed  their  eyes  and  teeth  at  the  blue-eyed 
young  American  without  descending  from  their 
unconscious  pride  of  sex  and  race.  They  had  the 
best  blood  of  Spain  in  them,  and  an  American 
was  an  American,  be  he  never  so  agreeable  to 
contemplate. 

The  girls  looked  much  alike  in  the  rebosos 
which  framed  their  faces  so  closely,  and  John 
promptly  fell  in  love  with  all  of  them  at  once. 
Selection  could  take  place  later ;  he  was  too  happy 
to  think  of  anything  so  serious  as  immediate 
marriage.  But  one  of  them  he  determined  to 
have. 

He  rode  out  of  the  canon  with  them,  and  they 
were  gracious,  and  chattered  of  the  pleasures  to 
come  at  the  Rancho  de  los  Olivos. 

John  noticed  that  Enrique  kept  persistently  at 
the  side  of  one  maiden,  and  rode  a  little  ahead  with 
her.  She  was  very  tall  and  slim,  and  so  graceful 
that  she  swayed  almost  to  her  horse's  neck  when 

272 


Talbot   of   Ursula 

branches  drooped  too  low.  John  began  to  wish 
for  a  glimpse  of  her  face. 

"That  is  Delfina  Carillo,"  said  the  girl  beside 
him,  following  his  gaze.  "  She  go  to  marry  with 
Enrique,  I  theenk.  He  is  very  devot,  and  I  think 
she  like  him,  but  no  will  say." 

Perhaps  it  was  merely  the  fact  that  this  dainty 
flower  hung  a  little  higher  than  the  others  that 
caused  John's  thoughts  to  concentrate  upon  her, 
and  roused  his  curiosity  to  such  an  extent  that  he 
drew  his  companion  on  to  talk  of  the  girl  who  was 
favored  by  Enrique  Ortega.  He  learned  that 
she  was  the  daughter  of  a  great  rancher  near 
Santa  Barbara,  and  was  La  Favorita  of  all  the 
country  round. 

"She  have  the  place  that  Chonita  Iturbi  y 
Moncada  have  before,  and  many  caballeros  want 
to  marry  with  her,  but  she  no  pay  much  attention ; 
only  now  I  think  like  Enrique.  Ay,  he  sing  so 
beautiful,  Senor,  no  wonder  si  she  loving  him.  Ser- 
enade her  every  night,  and  she  love  the  musica." 

"It  certainly  must  be  that,"  thought  John, 
"for  he  hasn't  an  idea  in  his  head." 

He  did  not  see  her  until  that  night.  The  priest 
wore  the  brown  robe  of  his  order  to  the  ball,  and 
John  his  claw-hammer.  They  both  looked  out 
of  place  among  those  birds  of  brilliant  plumage. 

Dona  Martina,  large  and  coffee-colored,  with  a 
273 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 

mustache  and  many  jewels,  sat  against  the  wall 
with  other  senoras  of  her  kind.  They  wore 
heavy  red  and  yellow  satins,  but  the  girls  wore 
light  silks  that  fluttered  as  they  walked. 

Dona  Martina  gave  him  a  sleepy  welcome,  and 
he  turned  his  attention  to  the  dancing,  in  which 
he  could  take  no  part.  He  knew  that  his  man- 
ners were  good  and  his  carriage  easy,  but  the 
lighter  graces  had  not  come  his  way. 

At  the  moment  a  girl  was  dancing  alone  in  the 
middle  of  the  sala,  and  John  knew  instinctively 
that  she  was  Delfina  Carillo.  Like  the  other 
girls,  she  wore  her  hair  high  under  a  tall  comb,  but 
her  gown  was  white  and  trimmed  with  the  lace  of 
Spain.  Her  feet,  of  course,  were  tiny,  and  showed 
plainly  beneath  her  slightly  lifted  skirts ;  and  she 
danced  with  no  perceptible  effort,  rather  as  if 
swayed  by  a  light  wind,  like  the  pendent  moss  in 
the  woods.  She  had  just  begun  to  dance  when 
John  entered,  and  the  company  was  standing 
against  the  wall  in  silence ;  but  in  a  few  moments 
the  young  men  began  to  mutter,  then  to  clap  and 
stamp,  then  to  shout,  and  finally  they  plunged 
their  hands  wildly  into  their  pockets  and  flung 
gold  and  silver  at  her  feet.  But  she  took  no  notice 
beyond  a  flutter  of  nostril,  and  continued  to  dance 
like  a  thing  of  light  and  air. 

Her  beauty  was  very  great.  John,  young  as 
274 


Talbot    of   Ursula 

he  was,  knew  that  it  was  hardly  likely  he  should 
ever  see  beauty  in  such  perfection  again.  It  was 
not  an  intellectual  face,  but  it  was  faultless  of 
line  and  delicate  of  coloring.  The  eyes  were  not 
only  very  large  and  black,  but  the  lashes  were  so 
long  and  soft  the  wonder  was  they  did  not  tangle. 
Her  skin  was  white,  her  cheeks  and  lips  were  pink, 
her  mouth  was  curved  and  flexible;  and  her  fig- 
ure, her  arms  and  hands  and  feet  had  the  ex- 
pression in  their  perfect  lines  that  her  face  lacked. 
John  noticed  that  she  had  a  short  upper  lip,  a 
haughty  nostril,  and  a  carriage  that  expressed 
pride  both  latent  and  active.  It  was  with  an 
effort  that  she  bent  her  head  graciously  as  she 
glided  from  the  floor,  taking  no  notice  of  the  of- 
ferings that  had  been  flung  at  her  feet. 

And  John  loved  her  once  and  for  all.  She  was 
the  sublimation  of  every  dream  that  his  romantic 
heart  had  conceived.  He  felt  faint  for  a  mo- 
ment at  the  difficulties  which  bristled  between 
himself  and  this  superlative  being,  but  he  was 
a  youthful  conqueror,  and  life  had  been  very 
amiable  to  him.  He  shook  courage  into  his 
spirit  and  asked  to  be  presented  to  her  at 
once. 

Her  eyes  swept  his  face  indifferently,  but  some- 
thing in  his  intense  regard  compelled  her  atten- 
tion, and  although  she  appeared  to  scorn  con- 

275 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 

versation,  she  smiled  once  or  twice ;  and  when  she 
smiled  her  face  was  dazzling. 

"That  was  very  wonderful,  that  dance,  seno- 
rita;  but  does  it  not  tire  you?" 

"No." 

"You  are  glad  to  give  such  great  pleasure,  I 
suppose?" 

"Si—" 

"You  are  so  used  to  compliments — I  know 
how  the  caballeros  go  on — you  won't  mind  my 
saying  it  was  the  most  beautiful  thing  I  ever  saw 
• — and  I  have  been  about  the  world  a  bit." 

"Si?" 

"I  wish  I  could  dance,  if  only  to  dance  with 
you." 

"You  no  dance?"  Her  tone  expressed  polite 
scorn,  although  her  voice  was  scarcely  audible. 

"Would — would — you  talk  out  a  dance  with 
me?" 

"  Oh  no."  She  looked  as  astonished  as  if  John 
had  asked  her  to  shut  herself  up  alone  in  her 
room  for  the  rest  of  the  evening,  and  she  swayed 
her  back  slowly  upon  him  and  lifted  her  hand  to 
the  shoulder  of  Enrique.  In  another  moment 
she  was  gliding  down  the  room  in  his  arm,  and 
John  noted  that  the  color  in  her  cheek  was  deeper. 

"It  is  impossible  that  she  can  care  for  that 
doll,"  he  thought;  "impossible." 

276 


Talbot    of   Ursula 

But  in  the  days  that  followed  he  realized  that 
the  race  was  to  be  a  hot  one.  He  was  included 
in  all  the  festivities,  and  they  went  to  meriendas 
among  the  cotton- woods  by  the  river  and  in  the 
hills,  danced  every  night,  were  entertained  by 
the  priests  at  the  Mission,  and  had  bull-fights, 
horse-races,  and  many  games  of  skill.  Upon  one 
occasion  John  was  the  happy  host  of  a  moonlight 
dance  among  his  olive-trees. 

Enrique's  attentions  to  his  beautiful  guest  were 
persistent  and  unmistakable,  and,  moreover,  he 
serenaded  her  nightly.  John,  riding  about  the 
ranch  late,  too  restless  to  sleep,  heard  those  dul- 
cet tones  raining  compliments  and  vows  upon 
Delfina's  casement,  and  swore  so  furiously  that 
he  terrified  the  night  birds. 

But  he,  too,  managed  to  keep  close  to  Delfina, 
in  spite  of  an  occasional  scowl  from  Enrique, 
who,  however,  held  all  Americans  in  too  lofty  a 
contempt  to  fear  one.  John  had  several  little 
talks  apart  with  her,  and  it  was  not  long  before 
he  discovered  that  nature  had  done  little  for  the 
interior  of  that  beautiful  shell.  She  had  read 
nothing,  and  thought  almost  as  little.  What  in- 
telligence she  had  was  occupied  with  her  regal- 
ities, and  although  sweet  in  spite  of  her  hauteur, 
and  unselfish  notwithstanding  her  good-fortune, 
as  a  companion  she  would  mean  little  to  any 
19  277 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 

man.  John,  however,  was  in  the  throes  of  his 
first  passion,  and  his  nature  was  ardent  and 
thorough.  Had  she  been  a  fool,  simpering  in- 
stead of  dignified,  he  would  not  have  cared.  She 
was  beautiful  and  magnetic,  and  she  embodied  an 
ideal.  The  ideal,  however,  or  rather  the  ambi- 
tion that  was  its  other  half,  played  no  part  in  his 
mind  as  his  love  deepened.  He  wanted  the 
woman,  and  had  he  suddenly  discovered  that  she 
was  a  changeling  born  among  the  people,  his 
love  and  his  determination  to  marry  her  would 
have  abated  not  a  tittle. 

His  olive-trees  were  neglected,  and  he  spent 
the  hours  of  their  separations  riding  about  the 
country  with  as  little  mercy  on  his  horses  as  had 
he  been  a  Calif ornian  born.  Sometimes,  touched 
by  the  youthful  fervor  in  his  eyes,  Delfina  would 
melt  perceptibly  and  ask  him  a  question  or  two 
about  himself,  a  dazzling  favor  in  one  who  held 
that  words  were  made  to  rust.  And  once,  when 
he  lifted  her  off  her  horse  under  the  heavy  shadow 
of  the  trees,  she  gave  him  a  glance  which  sent 
John  far  from  her  side,  lest  he  make  a  fool  of  him- 
self before  the  entire  company.  Meanwhile  he 
was  not  unhappy,  in  spite  of  the  wildness  in  his 
blood,  for  he  found  the  tremors  of  love  and  hope 
and  fear  as  sweet  as  they  were  extraordinary. 

One  evening  the  climax  came. 
278 


Talbot    of   Ursula 

Delfina  expressed  a  wish  to  see  the  lake  on  the 
summit  of  the  solitary  peak.  It  had  been  dis- 
covered by  the  Indians,  but  was  unknown  to  the 
luxurious  Californians.  The  company  was  as- 
sembled on  the  long  corridor  traversing  the  front 
of  the  Casa  Ortega  when  Delfina  startled  En- 
rique by  a  command  to  take  them  all  to  the  sum- 
mit that  night. 

"But,  senorita  mia,"  exclaimed  Enrique,  turn- 
ing pale  at  the  thought  of  offending  his  goddess, 
"  there  is  no  path.  I  do  not  know  the  way.  And 
it  is  as  steep  as  the  tower  of  the  Mission — " 

John  came  forward.  "There  is  an  Indian 
trail,"  he  said,  "  and  I  have  climbed  it  more  than 
once.  But  it  is  very  narrow — and  steep,  cer- 
tainly." 

Delfina' s  eyes,  which  had  flashed  disdain  upon 
Enrique,  smiled  upon  John.  "  We  go  with  you," 
she  announced;  "to-night,  for  is  moon.  And  I 
ride  in  front  with  you." 

On  the  whole,  thought  Talbot,  glancing  tow- 
ards the  great  peak  whose  wilderness  was  still 
unrifled,  that  was  the  happiest  night  of  his  life. 
They  outdistanced  the  others  by  a  few  yards,  and 
they  were  obliged  to  ride  so  close  that  their  shoul- 
ders touched.  It  was  the  full  of  the  moon,  but  in 
the  forest  there  was  only  an  occasional  splash  of 
silver.  They  might  have  fancied  themselves 

279 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 

alone  in  primeval  solitude  had  it  not  been  for 
the  gay  voices  behind  them.  And  never  had 
Delfina  been  so  enchanting.  She  even  talked  a 
little,  but  her  accomplished  coquetry  needed  few 
words.  She  could  express  more  by  a  bend  of  the 
head  or  an  inflection  of  the  voice  than  other 
women  could  accomplish  with  vocabularies  and 
brains.  John  felt  his  head  turning,  but  retained 
wisdom  enough  to  wait  for  a  moment  when  they 
should  be  quite  alone. 

The  lake  looked  like  a  large  reflection  of  the 
moon  itself,  for  the  black  trees  shadowed  but  the 
edge  of  the  waters.  So  great  was  the  beauty  of 
the  scene  that  for  a  few  moments  the  company 
gazed  at  it  silently,  and  the  mountain-top  re- 
mained as  still  as  during  its  centuries  of  loneli- 
ness. But,  finally,  some  one  exclaimed,  "Ay, 
yiT  and  then  rose  a  chorus,  " Dios  de  mi  alma!" 
"Dios  de  mi  vida!"  "Ay,  California!  Califor- 
nia!" "Ay,  de  mi,  de  mi,  de  mi!" 

Everybody,  even  Enrique,  was  occupied.  John 
caught  the  bridle  of  Delfina's  horse,  and  forced 
it  back  into  the  forest.  And  then  his  words  tum- 
bled one  over  the  other. 

11 1  must,  I  must!"  he  said  wildly,  keeping  down 
his  voice  with  difficulty.  "I've  scarcely  had  a 
chance  to  make  you  love  me,  but  I  can't  wait  to 
tell  you — I  love  you.  I  love  you!  I  want  to 

280 


Talhot    of    Ursula 

marry  you!  Oh — I  am  choking!"  He  wrenched 
at  his  collar,  and  in  truth  he  felt  as  if  the  very 
mountain  were  trembling. 

Delfina  had  thrown  back  her  head.  "Ay!" 
she  remarked.  Then  she  laughed. 

She  had  no  desire  to  be  cruel,  but  her  manifest 
amusement  brought  the  blood  down  from  John's 
head,  and  he  shook  from  head  to  foot.  His  white 
face  showed  plainly  in  this  fringe  of  the  forest, 
and  she  ceased  laughing  and  spoke  kindly. 

"  Poor  boy,  I  am  sorry  si  I  hurt  you,  but  I  no 
can  marry  you.  Never  I  can  love  the  Amer- 
icano ;  no  is  like  our  men,  so  handsome,  so  grace- 
ful, so  splendid.  I  like  you,  for  are  very  nice 
boy,  but  I  go  to  marry  with  Enrique.  So  no 
theenk  more  about  it."  Then  as  he  continued 
to  stare,  the  youthful  agony  in  his  face  touched 
her,  and  she  leaned  forward  and  said  softly, 
"Can  kiss  me  once  si  you  like.  You  are  boy  to 
me,  no  more,  so  I  no  mind."  And  he  kissed  her 
with  a  violence  of  despair  and  passion  which 
caused  her  maiden  mind  to  wonder,  and  which 
she  never  experienced  again. 

He  went  no  more  to  the  Casa  Ortega,  and  hid 
among  his  olive-trees  when  the  company  clat- 
tered by  the  Mission.  At  the  end  of  another  week 
she  returned  to  her  home,  and  three  months  later 
she  returned  as  the  bride  of  Enrique  Ortega. 

281 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 

Talbot  smiled  slightly  as  he  recalled  the  suf- 
ferings of  the  boy  long  dead.  There  had  been 
months  when  he  had  felt  half  mad;  then  had 
succeeded  several  years  of  melancholy  and  a  dis- 
taste for  everything  in  life  but  work.  He  could 
not  bring  himself  to  sell  the  ranch  and  flee  from 
the  scene  of  his  disappointment,  for  he  was 
young  enough  to  take  a  morbid  pleasure  in  the 
very  theatre  of  his  failure. 

He  did  not  see  Delfina  again  for  three  years. 
By  that  time  she  had  three  children  and  had 
begun  to  grow  stout.  But  she  was  still  very 
beautiful,  and  John  kept  out  of  her  way  for  sev- 
eral years  more. 

But  the  years  rolled  round  very  swiftly.  Dona 
Martina  died.  So  did  six  of  the  ten  children  Del- 
fina bore.  Then  Enrique  died,  leaving  his  dimin- 
ished estates,  his  wife,  and  his  four  little  girls  to 
the  care  of  John  Talbot. 

This  was  after  fourteen  years  of  matrimony 
and  six  years  of  intimacy  between  Talbot  and  the 
family  of  Los  Olivos.  One  day  Enrique,  in  des- 
peration at  the  encroachments  of  certain  squat- 
ters, had  bethought  himself  of  the  American,  now 
the  most  influential  man  in  the  county,  and  gone 
to  him  for  advice.  Talbot  had  found  him  a  good 
lawyer,  lent  him  the  necessary  money,  and  the 
squatters  were  dispossessed.  Enrique's  gratitude 

282 


Talbot    of   Ursula 

for  Talbot  knew  no  bounds;  he  pressed  the  hos- 
pitality of  Los  Olivos  upon  him,  and  in  time  the 
two  became  fast  friends. 

Ortega  and  Delfina  had  jogged  along  very  com- 
fortably. She  was  an  exemplary  wife,  a  devoted 
mother,  and  as  excellent  a  housekeeper  as  became 
her  traditions.  He  made  a  kind  and  indulgent 
husband,  and  if  neither  found  much  to  say  to 
the  other,  their  brief  conversations  were  amiable. 
Enrique  developed  no  wit  with  the  years,  but  he 
was  always  a  courteous  host  and  played  a  good 
game  of  billiards,  besides  taking  a  mild  interest 
in  the  affairs  of  the  nation.  John  soon  fell  into 
the  habit  of  spending  two  nights  a  week  at  the 
Rancho  de  los  Olivos,  and  never  failed  to  fill  his 
pockets  with  sweets  for  the  little  girls,  who  pre- 
ferred him  to  their  father. 

And  his  love !  He  used  to  fancy  it  was  buried 
somewhere  in  the  mausoleum  of  flesh  which  had 
built  itself  about  Delfina  Carillo.  She  weighed 
two  hundred  pounds,  and  her  black  hair  and  fine 
teeth  were  the  only  remnants  of  her  splendid 
beauty.  Her  face  was  large  and  brown,  and  al- 
though she  retained  her  dignity  of  carriage  and 
moved  with  the  old  slow  grace,  she  looked  what 
she  was,  the  Spanish  mother  of  many  children. 

The  change  was  gradual,  and  brought  no  pang 
with  it'.  John's  memory  was  a  good  one,  and 

283 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 

sometimes  when  it  turned  to  his  youth  and  the  one 
passion  of  his  life,  he  felt  something  like  a  sob  in 
his  soul,  a  momentary  echo  of  the  old  agony. 
But  it  was  only  an  echo ;  he  had  outgrown  it  all 
long  since.  He  sometimes  wondered  that  he 
loved  no  other  woman,  why  his  ambition  to  have 
an  aristocratic  wife  had  died  with  his  first  passion ; 
and  concluded  that  the  intensity  of  his  nature 
had  worn  itself  out  in  that  period  of  prolonged 
suffering,  and  that  he  was  incapable  of  loving 
again.  And  the  experience  had  satisfied  him 
that  marriage  without  love  would  be  a  poor  af- 
fair. Once  in  a  while,  after  leaving  the  plain 
coffee-colored  dame  who  filled  the  doorway  as  she 
waved  him  good-bye,  he  sighed  as  he  recalled  the 
exquisite  creature  of  his  youth.  But  these  sighs 
grew  less  and  less  frequent,  for  not  only  was  the 
grass  high  above  that  old  grave  in  his  heart  and 
he  a  busy  and  practical  man,  but  the  Senora 
Ortega  had  become  the  most  necessary  of  his 
friends.  What  she  lacked  in  brain  she  made  up 
in  sympathy,  and  she  had  developed  a  certain 
amount  of  intelligence  with  the  years.  It  be- 
came his  habit  to  talk  to  her  of  all  his  ambitions 
and  plans,  particularly  after  the  death  of  En- 
rique, when  they  had  many  uninterrupted  hours 
together. 

Upon  Ortega's  death  Talbot  took  charge  of  the 
284 


Talbot    of   Ursula 

estate  at  once,  and  into  the  particulars  of  her 
handsome  income  it  never  occurred  to  the  widow 
to  inquire.  One  by  one  the  girls  married,  and 
Talbot  dowered  them  all.  They  were  pretty 
creatures,  and  John  loved  them,  for  each  had  in 
her  face  a  morsel  of  Delfina  Carillo's  lost  beauty; 
and  if  they  recalled  the  pain  of  his  youth  they 
recalled  its  sweetness  too.  The  Senora  recalled 
neither. 

For  the  last  year  she  had  been  quite  alone. 
Two  of  her  daughters  lived  in  the  city  of  Mexico. 
One  had  married  a  Spanish  Consul  and  returned 
with  him  to  Spain.  The  other  lived  in  San  Fran- 
cisco, and  as  soon  as  domestic  affairs  would  per- 
mit intended  to  visit  her  sisters.  Talbot,  when 
at  home,  called  on  the  Senora  once  a  week  and 
always  carried  a  novel  or  an  illustrated  paper  in 
his  saddle-bag. 

"Is  the  tragedy  at  this  end  or  the  other?" 
thought  Talbot,  as  he  walked  up  and  down  the 
Mission  corridor  on  his  fortieth  birthday — "that 
I  could  not  have  her  when  I  was  mad  about 
her,  or  that  I  can  have  her  now  and  don't  want 
her?" 

He  knew  that  the  Senora  was  lonesome  in  her 
big  house  and  would  have  welcomed  a  compan- 
ion, but  he  knew  also  that  the  desire  moved  slug- 
gishly in  the  depths  of  her  lazy  mind.  If  he  were 

285 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 

willing,  well  and  good.  If  otherwise,  it  mattered 
not  much. 

His  Indian  servant  cantered  up  with  his  horse, 
he  gave  a  last  regretful  glance  at  the  cool  corri- 
dor of  the  Mission,  and  then  went  out  into  the 
hot  sun. 

He  was  only  a  stone  heavier  than  in  the  old 
days,  but  he  rode  more  slowly,  for  this  his  favor- 
ite mare  was  no  longer  young.  His  day  for 
breaking  in  bucking  mustangs  was  over,  and  he 
liked  an  animal  that  would  behave  itself  as  be- 
came the  four-footed  companion  of  his  years. 

The  road  through  the-pale  green  cotton-woods 
and  willows  that  wooded  the  banks  of  the  river — 
as  dry  as  the  heavens — was  almost  cold,  and  re- 
freshingly dim;  but  when  the  bed  and  its  fringe 
turned  abruptly  to  the  south  his  way  led  for  five 
sweltering  miles  through  sun-burned  fields  and 
over  hills  as  yellow  as  polished  gold.  The  sky 
looked  like  dark-blue  metal  in  which  a  hole  had 
been  cut  for  a  lake  of  fire.  The  heat  it  emptied 
quivered  visibly  in  the  parched  fields,  and  the 
mountains  swam  in  a  purple  haze.  Talbot  had  a 
grape-leaf  in  his  hat,  and  the  suns  of  California 
had  baked  his  complexion  long  since,  but  he 
wished  that  his  birthday  occurred  in  winter,  as 
he  had  wished  many  a  time  before. 

It  was  an  hour  and  a  half  before  he  rode  into 
286 


Talbot    of    Ursula 

the  grounds  surrounding  Casa  Ortega.  Then  he 
spurred  his  horse,  for  here  were  many  old  oak- 
trees  and  the  atmosphere  was  twenty  degrees 
cooler.  A  Mexican  servant  met  him,  and  he  dis- 
mounted and  walked  the  few  remaining  yards  to 
the  house.  He  sighed  as  he  remembered  that 
Herminia,  the  last  of  the  girls  to  marry,  had  been 
there  to  kiss  him  on  his  last  birthday.  He  would 
gladly  have  had  all  four  back  again,  and  now 
they  had  passed  out  of  his  life  forever. 

The  Casa  Ortega  was  a  very  long  adobe  house 
one  story  in  height  and  one  room  deep,  except 
in  an  ell  where  a  number  of  rooms  were  bunched 
together.  The  Sefiora  had  it  whitewashed  every 
year,  and  the  red  tiles  on  the  roof  renewed  when 
necessary;  therefore  it  had  none  of  the  pathetic 
look  of  old  age  peculiar  to  the  adobe  mansions  of 
the  dead  grandees. 

A  long  veranda  traversed  the  front,  supported 
by  pillars  and  furnished  with  gayly  painted  chairs ; 
but  it  was  empty,  and  Talbot  entered  the  sala  at 
once.  It  was  a  long  room,  severely  furnished  in 
the  old  style,  and  facing  the  door  was  a  painting 
of  Delfina  Canllo.  Talbot  rarely  allowed  his 
eyes  to  wander  to  this  portrait.  Had  he  dared 
he  would  have  asked  for  its  removal.  The  grass 
was  long  above  the  grave,  but  there  were  such 
things  as  ghosts. 

287 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 

The  Senora  was  sitting  in  a  corner  of  the  dim 
cool  room,  and  rose  at  once  to  greet  him.  She 
came  forward  with  a  grace  and  dignity  of  car- 
riage that  still  had  the  power  to  prick  his  ad- 
miration. But  she  was  very  dark,  and  the  old  en- 
chanting smile  had  lost  its  way  long  since  in  the 
large  cheeks  and  heavy  chin.  Even  her  eyes  no 
longer  looked  big,  and  the  famous  lashes  had 
been  worn  down  by  many  tears;  for  there  were 
six  little  graves  in  the  Ortega  corner  of  the  Mis- 
sion church-yard,  and  she  had  loved  her  children 
devotedly.  She  carried  her  two  hundred  pounds 
as  unconsciously  as  she  had  once  carried  her  wil- 
lowy inches,  and  she  wore  soft  black  cashmere  in 
winter  and  lawn  in  summer,  fastened  at  the  throat 
with  a  miniature  of  the  husband  of  her  youth. 
She  was  only  thirty-nine,  but  there  was  not  a  ves- 
tige of  youth  about  her  anywhere,  and  her  whole 
being  expressed  a  life  lived,  and  a  sleepy  con- 
tentment with  the  fact.  Talbot  often  wondered 
if  she  had  no  hours  of  insupportable  loneliness; 
but  she  gave  no  sign,  and  he  concluded  that  nov- 
els and  religion  sufficed. 

"So  hot  it  is,  no?'*  she  said  in  her  soft  hardly 
audible  tones,  that,  like  her  carriage  and  manner, 
were  unchanged.  "  You  have  the  face  very  red, 
but  feel  better  in  a  little  while.  Very  cool  here, 
no?" 

288 


Talbot    of   Ursula 

"  I  feel  ten  years  younger  than  I  did  a  quarter 
of  an  hour  ago.  There  was  a  time — alas ! — when 
I  could  stand  the  suns  of  California  for  six  hours 
at  a  stretch,  but — " 

"Ay,  yes,  we  grow  more  old  every  year.  Is 
twenty  now  since  we  merienda  all  day  and  dance 
all  night — when  I  am  a  visitor  here,  no  more; 
and  you  are  the  thin  boy  with  the  long  arms  and 
legs,  and  try  to  grow  the  mustache." 

It  was  the  first  time  she  had  ever  referred  to 
their  youth,  and  he  stared  at  her.  But  her  face 
was  as  placid  as  if  she  had  been  helping  him  to 
chicken  with  Chile-sauce,  and  he  wondered  if  it 
could  change.  Involuntarily  he  glanced  at  the 
portrait.  It  seemed  alive  with  expression,  and — 
the  room  was  almost  dark — he  fancied  the  eyes 
were  tragic. 

"How  can  she  stand  it?"  he  thought.  "How 
can  she?" 

"You  are  improve,"  she  continued  politely. 
"The  American  mens  no  grow  old  like  the  Span- 
ish— or  like  the  women  that  have  ten  children 
and  get  so  stout  and  have  the  troubles — " 

"You  have  retained  much,  Senora,"  exclaimed 
Talbot,  blundering  over  the  first  compliment  he 
he  had  paid  her  in  twenty  years. 

She  smiled  placidly  and  moved  her  head  gently ; 
the  word  "  shake ' '  could  never  apply  to  any  of  her 

289 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 

movements.  "  I  have  the  mirror — and  the  pict- 
ure. And  I  no  mind,  Don  Juan.  When  the 
woman  bury  the  six  children,  no  care  si  she  grow 
old.  The  more  soon  grow  old  the  more  soon  die 
and  see  the  little  ones — am  always  very  fond  of 
Enrique  also,"  she  added,  "but  when  am  young 
love  more.  He  is  very  good  man  always,  but  he 
grow  old  like  myself  and  very  fat.  Only  you  are 
improve,  my  friend.  That  one  reason  why  al- 
ways I  am  so  glad  to  see  you.  Remind  me  of 
that  time  when  all  are  young  and  happy." 

Old  Marcia  announced  dinner,  and  Talbot 
sprang  to  his  feet  with  a  sensation  of  relief  and 
offered  the  Senora  his  arm.  She  made  no  further 
references  to  their  youth  during  the  excellent  and 
highly  seasoned  repast,  but  discussed  the  possi- 
bilities of  the  crops  and  listened  with  deep  atten- 
tion to  the  political  forecast.  She  knew  that 
politics  were  becoming  the  absorbing  interest  in 
the  life  of  her  friend,  and  although  she  also  knew 
that  they  would  one  day  put  a  continent  be- 
tween herself  and  him,  she  had  long  since  ceased 
to  live  for  self,  and  never  failed  to  encourage 
him. 

When  the  last  dulce  had  been  eaten  they  went 
out  upon  the  veranda  and  talked  drowsily  of 
minor  matters  until  both  nodded  in  their  com- 
fortable chairs,  and  finally  fell  asleep. 

290 


Talbot    of   Ursula 

For  a  time  the  heavy  dinner  locked  Talbot 's 
brain,  but  finally  he  began  to  dream  of  his  youth, 
and  the  scenes  of  which  Delfina  Carillo  had  been 
the  heroine  were  flung  from  their  rusty  frames 
into  the  hot  light  of  his  memory,  until  he  lived 
again  the  ecstasy  and  the  anguish  of  that  time. 
The  morning's  reminiscences  had  moved  coldly 
in  his  mind,  but  so  intense  was  his  vision  of  the 
woman  he  had  worshipped  that  she  seemed 
bathed  in  light. 

He  awoke  suddenly.  The  Sefiora  still  slept, 
and  her  face  was  as  placid  as  in  consciousness. 
It  was  slightly  relaxed,  but  the  time  had  not  yet 
come  for  the  pathetic  loss  of  muscular  control. 
Still,  she  looked  so  large  and  brown  and  stout 
that  Talbot  rose  abruptly  with  an  echo  of  the 
agony  that  had  returned  in  sleep,  and  entered 
the  sala  and  stood  deliberately  before  the  por- 
trait. It  had  been  painted  by  an  artist  of  much 
ability.  There  was  atmosphere  behind  it,  which 
in  the  dim  room  detached  it  from  the  canvas; 
and  the  curved  red  mouth  smiled,  the  eyes  flashed 
with  the  triumph  of  youth  and  much  conquest, 
the  skin  was  as  white  as  the  moon-flowers  in  the 
fields  at  night. 

Talbot  recalled  the  night  he  had  taken  this 
woman  in  his  arms — not  the  woman  on  the  ve- 
randa— and  involuntarily  he  raised  them  to  the 

291 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 

picture.  "And  I  thought  it  was  over,"  he  mut- 
tered, with  a  terrified  gasp.  "  But  I  believe  I 
would  give  my  immortal  soul  and  everything  I've 
accomplished  in  life  if  she  would  come  out  of  the 
frame  and  the  past  for  an  hour  and  love  me." 

"Whatte  you  say?"  drawled  a  gentle  voice. 
"I  fall  asleep,  no?  Si  you  ring  that  little  bell 
Marcia  bring  the  chocolate.  You  find  it  too  hot 
out  here?" 

"Oh,  no;  I  prefer  it  out-of-doors.  It  is  cooler 
now,  and  I  like  all  the  air  I  can  get." 

He  longed  to  get  away,  but  he  sipped  his  choc- 
olate and  listened  to  the  domestic  details  of  his 
four  vicarious  daughters.  The  Senora  was  im- 
mensely proud  of  her  five  grandchildren.  Their 
photographs  were  all  over  the  house. 

At  six  o'clock  he  shook  hands  with  her  and 
sprang  on  his  horse.  Half-way  down  the  avenue 
he  turned  his  head,  as  usual.  She  stood  on  the 
veranda  still,  and  smiled  pleasantly  to  him,  mov- 
ing one  of  her  large  brown  hands  a  little.  He 
never  saw  the  Senora  again. 

II 

Talbot  was  obliged  to  go  to  San  Francisco  a 
day  or  two  later,  and  when  he  returned  the  Senora 
was  in  bed  with  a  severe  cold.  He  sent  her  a  box 

292 


Talbot    of   Ursula 

of  books  and  papers,  and  another  of  chocolates, 
and  then  forgot  her  in  the  excitement  of  the  elec- 
tions. It  was  the  autumn  of  the  year  1868,  and 
he  was  an  enthusiastic  admirer  of  Grant.  He 
stumped  the  State  for  that  admirable  warrior  and 
indifferent  statesman,  with  the  result  that  his 
own  following  increased ;  and  his  interest  in  poli- 
tics waxed  with  each  of  several  notable  successes 
in  behalf  of  the  candidate.  He  finally  announced 
decisively  that  he  should  run  for  Congress  at  the 
next  elections,  and  a  member  of  the  House  of 
Representatives  from  his  district  dying  two  days 
later,  he  was  appointed  at  once  to  fill  the  vacant 
chair. 

The  Sefiora  was  still  in  bed  with  a  persistent 
cold  and  cough  when  he  left  for  Washington  late 
in  November,  but  he  rode  over  to  leave  a  good- 
bye with  old  Marcia,  and  ordered  a  bookseller  in 
San  Francisco  to  send  her  all  the  illustrated  papers 
and  magazines. 

She  entered  his  mind  but  seldom  during  those 
interesting  months  in  Washington.  Talbot  be- 
came sure  of  his  particular  talent  at  last,  and  de- 
termined to  remain  in  politics  for  the  rest  of  his 
life.  Moreover,  the  excitement  until  the  4th  of 
March  was  intense,  for  Southern  blood  was  still 
hot  and  bitter,  and  there  were  rumors  in  the  air 
that  Grant  would  be  assassinated  on  the  day  of 

293 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 

his  inauguration.  He  was  not,  however,  and  Tal- 
bot  was  glad  to  be  in  Washington  on  that  mem- 
orable day.  He  wrote  the  Sefiora  an  account 
both  of  the  military  appearance  of  the  city  and 
of  the  brilliant  scene  in  the  Senate  Chamber,  but 
she  had  ceased,  for  the  time,  to  be  a  weekly  ne- 
cessity in  his  life. 

And  being  a  bachelor,  wealthy,  handsome,  and 
properly  launched,  he  was  soon  skimming  that 
social  sea  of  many  crafts.  For  the  first  time 
since  his  abrupt  severance  from  the  Los  Olivos 
festivities  he  enjoyed  society.  San  Francisco's 
had  seemed  a  poor  imitation  of  what  novels  de- 
scribed, but  Washington  was  full  of  brilliant  in- 
terest. And  he  met  more  than  one  woman  who 
recalled  his  boyish  ideals,  women  who  were  far 
more  like  the  vision  in  the  English  church-yard 
than  Delfina  Carillo;  who,  indeed,  had  not  re- 
sembled the  English  girl  in  anything  but  manifest 
of  race,  and  had  been  an  ideal  apart,  never  to  be 
encountered  again  in  this  world. 

It  was  a  long  and  exciting  session,  and  he  gave 
all  the  energies  of  his  mind  to  the  great  question 
of  reconstruction,  but  more  than  once  he  asked 
himself  if  the  time  had  not  come  to  marry,  if  it 
were  not  a  duty  to  his  old  self  to  gratify  the  am- 
bition to  which  he  owed  the  foundations  of  his 
success  with  life.  A  beautiful  and  high-bred  wife 

294 


Talbot    of  Ursula 

would  still  afford  him  profound  satisfaction,  no 
doubt  of  that.  He  could  in  the  last  ten  or  twelve 
years  have  married  more  than  one  charming  San 
Francisco  girl,  but  that  interval  of  passionate 
love  between  his  youthful  ambition  and  his  many 
opportunities  had  given  him  a  distaste  for  a  luke- 
warm marriage.  Here  in  Washington,  however, 
California  seemed  a  long  way  off,  and  he  was  only 
forty,  in  the  very  perfection  of  mental  and  phys- 
ical vigor.  Could  he  not  love  again  ?  Surely  a 
man  in  the  long  allotted  span  must  begin  life 
more  than  once.  He  found  himself,  after  an 
hour,  in  some  beautiful  woman's  boudoir,  or  with 
a  charming  girl  in  the  pale  illumination  of  a  con- 
servatory, longing  for  the  old  tremors  of  hope 
and  despair,  and  he  determined  to  let  himself  go 
at  the  first  symptom.  But  he  continued  to  be 
merely  charmed  and  interested.  If  the  turbulent 
waters  were  in  him  still,  they  had  .fallen  far  be- 
low their  banks  and  would  not  rise  at  his  bid- 
ding. 

It  was  not  to  be  expected  that  the  Sefiora  would 
write ;  she  hated  the  sight  of  a  pen,  and  only  wrote 
once  a  month — with  sighs  of  protest  that  were 
almost  energetic — to  her  daughters.  Padre  Or- 
tega was  too  old  for  correspondence ;  consequently 
Talbot  heard  no  news  of  Santa  Ursula  except  from 
his  major-domo,  who  wrote  a  monthly  report  of 

295 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 

the  progress  of  the  olive-trees  and  the  hotel. 
This  person  was  not  given  to  gossip,  and  Talbot 
was  in  ignorance  of  the  health  of  his  old  friend, 
in  spite  of  one  or  two  letters  of  inquiry,  until  al- 
most the  end  of  the  session.  Then  the  major- 
domo  was  moved  to  write  the  following  postscript 
to  one  of  his  dry  reports: — 

The  Sefiora  is  dying,  I  guess — consumption,  the  gal- 
loping kind.  You  may  see  her  again,  and  you  main't. 
We're  all  sorry  here,  for  she's  always  bin  square  and 
kind. 

There  still  remained  three  weeks  of  the  session, 
but  Talbot's  committee  had  finished  its  work,  and 
he  was  practically  free.  He  paired  with  a  friend- 
ly Democrat,  and  started  for  California  the  day  he 
received  the  letter.  The  impulse  to  go  to  the  bed- 
side of  his  old  friend  had  been  immediate  and 
peremptory.  He  forgot  the  pleasant  women  in 
Washington,  his  new-formed  plans.  The  train 
seemed  to  walk. 

They  were  not  sentimental  memories  that 
moved  so  persistently  in  his  mind  during  that  long 
hot  journey  overland.  Had  they  risen  they 
would  have  been  rebuked,  as  having  no  place  in 
the  sad  reality  of  to-day.  An  old  friend  was  dy- 
ing, the  most  necessary  and  sympathetic  he  had 
known.  He  realized  that  she  had  become  a  habit, 

296 


Talbot    of    Ursula 

and  that  when  she  left  the  world  he  would  be  very 
much  alone.  His  mind  dwelt  constantly  on  that 
large  brown  kindly  presence,  and  he  winked  away 
more  than  one  tear  as  he  reflected  that  he  should 
go  to  her  no  more  for  sympathy,  do  nothing 
further  to  alleviate  the  loneliness  of  her  life.  In 
consequence  he  was  in  no  way  prepared  for  what 
awaited  him  at  Los  Olivos. 

He  arrived  at  night.  Padre  Ortega  was  away, 
so  he  could  get  no  news  of  the  Senora  except  that 
she  was  still  alive.  He  sent  her  a  note  at  once, 
telling  her  to  expect  him  at  eleven  the  next  morn- 
ing. 

Again  he  took  a  long  hot  ride  over  sunburned 
hills  and  fields,  for  it  wanted  but  a  few  weeks  of 
his  birthday.  As  he  cantered  through  the  oaks 
near  the  house  he  saw  that  a  hammock  was 
swung  across  the  veranda,  and  that  some  one  lay 
in  it — a  woman,  for  a  heavy  braid  of  black  hair 
hung  over  the  side  and  trailed  on  the  floor. 

"Surely,"  he  thought,  "surely — it  cannot  be 
the  Senora — in  a  hammock!"  And  then  he  sud- 
denly realized  that  the  disease  must  have  taken 
her  flesh. 

His  hands  trembled  as  he  dismounted  and  tied 
his  horse  to  a  tree,  and  he  lingered  as  long  as  he 
could,  for  he  felt  that  his  face  was  white.  But 
he  was  a  man  long  used  to  self-control,  and  in  a 

297 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 

moment  he  walked  steadily  forward  and  ascended 
the  steps  to  the  veranda.  And  then  as  he  stood 
looking  down  upon  the  hammock  he  needed  all 
the  control  he  possessed. 

For  the  Senora  had  gone  and  Delfina  Carillo  lay 
there.  Not  the  magnificent  pulsing  creature  of 
old,  for  her  face  was  pinched  and  little  blue  veins 
showed  everywhere;  but  the  ugly  browns  had 
gone  with  her  flesh,  her  skin  was  white,  and  her 
cheeks  flamed  with  color.  Her  eyes  looked  enor- 
mous, and  her  mouth  had  regained  its  curves  and 
mobility,  although  it  drooped.  She  wore  a  soft 
white  wrapper  with  much  lace  about  the  throat; 
and  she  looked  twenty-six,  and  beautiful,  wreck 
as  she  was. 

"Delfina!"  he  articulated.  " Delfina!"  And 
then  he  sat  down,  for  his  knees  were  shaking. 
The  blood  seemed  rushing  through  his  brain,  and 
after  that  first  terrible  but  ecstatic  moment  of 
recognition,  he  was  conscious  of  a  poignant  re- 
gret for  the  loss  of  his  brown  old  friend.  He 
glanced  about,  involuntarily.  Where  had  she 
gone — that  other  personality  ?  For  even  the  first 
soul  of  the  woman  looked  from  the  great  eyes  in 
the  hammock. 

Delfina  stared  at  him  for  some  moments  with- 
out speaking.  Then  she  said,  with  a  sigh,  "  Ay — 
it  is  Juan." 

298 


Talbot    of   Ursula 

She  sat  up  abruptly.  "  Listen,"  she  said, 
speaking  rapidly.  "At  first  I  no  know  you,  for 
the  mind  wander  much ;  and  then  Marcia  tell  me 
I  think  always  I  am  the  girl  again.  Sometimes, 
even  when  I  have  the  sense,  I  theenk  so  too,  for 
am  alone,  have  nothing  to  remind,  and  I  like 
theenk  that  way.  When  I  am  seeck  first  Her- 
minia  coming  to  see  me,  but  I  write  her,  after,  am 
well  again,  for  I  know  she  and  the  husband  want 
to  go  to  Mexico.  Then,  after  I  get  worse,  I  am 
very  glad  she  going,  that  all  my  girls  are  away; 
for  the  dreams  I  have  when  the  mind  is  no  right 
give  me  pleasure  and  bring  back  the  days  when 
am  young  and  so  happy.  I  feel  glad  I  go  to  die 
that  way  and  not  like  the  old  peoples.  So  happy 
I  am  sometimes,  Juan,  you  cannot  theenk!  Was 
here,  you  remember,  for  two  months  before  I 
marry,  and  often  I  see  you  and  Enrique  and  all 
my  friends,  and  myself  so  gay  and  beautiful,  and 
all  the  caballeros  so  crazy  for  me,  and  all  the 
splendid  costumes  and  horses.  Ay  California! 
Her  youth,  too,  is  gone,  Juan!  Never  she  is 
Arcadia  again."  She  paused,  but  did  not  lie 
down,  and  in  a  few  moments  went  on:  "And 
often  I  theenk  of  you — often.  So  strange,  for 
love  Enrique  then;  but-— I  no  know — missing 
you  terreeblay  when  you  go  to  Washington,  and 
read  all  they  say  about  you  in  the  papers.  So 

299 


The    Bell    in    the    Fog 

long  now  since  Enrique  going,  and  the  love  go 
long  before — the  love  that  make  me  marry  him, 
I  mean,  for  always  love  the  husband;  that  was 
my  duty.  So,  when  my  youth  come  back, 
though  I  think  some  by  Enrique,  suppose  you  are 
more  in  the  mind,  which,  after  all,  is  old,  though 
much  fall  away.  And  I  want,  want  to  see  you, 
but  no  like  to  ask  you  to  come,  for  you  are  so 
busy  and  so  ambeetious,  and  I  know  I  live  till  you 
come  again  si  is  a  year,  and  that  make  me  feel 
happy.  No  cry,  my  friend.  I  no  cry,  for  is 
sweet  to  be  young  again.  Often  I  no  can  under- 
stand why  not  loving  you  then;  you  are  so  fine 
man  now — but  was  boy  then,  and  I  admeer  so 
much  the  caballeros,  so  splendid,  and  talk  so 
graceful;  no  was  use  then  to  the  other  kind. 
But,  although  I  no  theenk  much  before — have 
so  many  babies  and  so  much  trouble,  and,  after, 
nothing  no  matter — always  I  feel  deep  down  I 
have  miss  something  in  life ;  often  I  sigh,  but  no 
know  why.  But  theenk  much  when  go  to  die, 
and  now  I  know  that  si  I  am  really  young  again, 
and  well,  I  marry  you  and  am  happy  in  so  many 
ways  with  you,  and  have  the  intelligence.  Never 
I  really  have  been  alive.  I  know  that  now." 

She  fell  back,  panting  a  little,  and  her  voice, 
always  very  low,  had  become  almost  inaudible. 
She  motioned  to  a  bottle  of  angelica  on  the  table 

300 


Talbot    of   Ursula 

beside  her,  and  John  took  her  in  his  arms  and  put 
the  glass  to  her  lips.  It  brought  the  color  back 
to  her  face,  and  she  lifted  her  arms  and  crossed 
them  behind  his  neck. 

"Juan,"  she  whispered  coaxingly,  "you  have 
love  me  once — I  know,  and  sometimes  have  cried, 
because  theenk  how  I  have  made  you  suffer. 
Make  the  believe  I  am  really  the  young  girl  again, 
and  love  me  like  then.  Going  very  soon  now — 
and  will  make  me  very  happy." 

"It  is  easy  enough  to  imagine,"  he  said;  "easy 
enough!  It  will  be  a  ghastly  travesty,  God 
knows,  but  could  I  have  foreseen  to-day  during 
that  terrible  time,  I  would  have  welcomed  it  as 
better  than  nothing." 


THE    END 


THE  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  SANTA  CRUZ 


This  book  is  due  on  the  last  DATE  stamped  below. 


(.:AV  o    is/a 

APR  24, 


J(i'7o 
-u  /O 

11  1978  fitC'D 


MAR  11  1978 


100m.8,'65(F6282s8)2373 


2106  00206  1981 


